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CROSSING  THE  PLAINS 
DAYS  OF  '57 


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Crossing  the  Plains 
Days  of  '57 

A  NARRATIVE  OF  EARLY  EMIGRANT  TRAVEL 

TO    CALIFORNIA    BY    THE 

OX-TEAM  METHOD 


•^ 


BY 

WM.  AUDLEY  MAXWELL 


COPYRIGHT,  1915.  BY 
WM    AUDLEY  MAXWELL 


3UNSBT  PUBLISHING  HOUSE 
SAN  FRANCISCO  MCMXV 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

List  of  Illustrations        .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .VI 

Foreword VII 

Chapter  I.  Forsaking  the  Old,  in  Quest  of  the 

New.    First  Camp.    Fording  the 

Platte      1 

Chapter  II.  Laramie  Fashions  and  Sioux  Eti- 
quette. A  Trophy.  Chimney 
Rock.       A     Solitary     Emigrant. 

Jests  and  Jingles 13 

Chapter  III.  Lost  in  the  Black  Hills.  Devil's 
Gate.  Why  a  Mountain  Sheep 
Did    Not    Wink.      Green    River 

Ferry 31 

Chapter  IV.  Disquieting  Eumors  of  Redmen. 
Consolidation  for  Safety.  The 
Poisonous  Humboldt  ....  49 
Chapter  V.  The  Holloway  Massacre  ...  62 
Chapter  VI.  Origin  of  i '  Piker. ' '  Before  the  Era 
of  Canned  Good  and  Kodaks. 
Morning  Routine.  Typical  Biv- 
ouac. Sociability  Entrained.  The 
Flooded   Camp.      Hope   Sustains 

Patience 76 

Chapter  VII.  Tangled  by  a  Tornado.  Lost  the 
Pace  but  Kept  the  Cow.  Human 
Oddities.  Night  Guards.  Wolf 
Serenades.  Awe  of  the  Wilder- 
ness. A  Stampede  ....  97 
Chapter  VIII.  Disaster  Overtakes  the  Wood  Family  116 
Chapter  IX.  Mysterious  Visitors.  Extra  Senti- 
nels.    An  Anxious  Night      .      .    123 

Chapter  X.         Challenge  to  Battle 133 

Chapter  XI.       Sagebrush  Justice 144 

Chapter  XII.      Night    Travel.       Arid    Wastes    to 

Limpid   Waters 160 

Chapter  XIII.    Into  the  Settlements.   Halt.      .      .170 


326003 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

i '  They  started  flight M Frontispiece 

"Fording  the  Platte  consumed  one  entire  day"   .  11 

(i  Wo-haw-Buck " 14 

"From    our    coign    of    vantage    we    continued    to 

shoot" 21 

Chimney   Rock 22 

"One  melody  that  he  sang  from  the  heart"     .      .27 

"Hauled  the   delinquent  out" 30 

"The  wagons  were  lowered  through  the  crevice"  38 

Bone-writing 57 

"With  hand  upraised  in  supplication,  yielded   to 

the  impulse  to  flee" 67 

Jerry  Bush,  1914 72 

Nancy  Holloway,  1857 74 

The  Author,  twenty  years  after 100 

A  Coyote  Serenade 109 

"Van      Diveer's      advantage      was      slight      but 

sufficient" 136 

"A  sip  from  the  barrel  cost  fifty  cents"   .      .      .  146 

"  'Stop,'  shouted  the  Judge" 156 

"  'Melican  man  dig  gold" 173 

Pack-mule  route  to  placer  diggings 175 


FOREWORD 

Diligent  inquiry  has  failed  to  disclose 
the  existence  of  an  authentic  and 
comprehensive  narrative  of  a  pioneer 
journey  across  the  plains.  With  the 
exception  of  some  improbable  yarns 
and  disconnected  incidents  relating  to 
the  earlier  experiences,  the  subject  has 
been  treated  mainly  from  the  stand- 
point of  people  who  traveled  westward 
at  a  time  when  the  real  hardships  and 
perils  of  the  trip  were  much  less  than 
those  encountered  in  the  fifties. 

A  very  large  proportion  of  the  peo- 
ple now  residing  in  the  Far  West  are 
descendants  of  emigrants  who  came  by 
the  precarious  means  afforded  by  ox- 
team  conveyances.  For  some  three- 
score  years  the   younger   generations 


have  heard  from  the  lips  of  their  ances- 
tors enough  of  that  wonderful  pil- 
grimage to  create  among  them  a  wide- 
spread demand  for  a  complete  and 
typical  narrative. 

This  story  consists  of  facts,  with  the 
real  names  of  the  actors  in  the  drama. 
The  events,  gay,  grave  and  tragic,  are 
according  to  indelible  recollections  of 
eye-witnesses,  including  those  of 

The  Author. 
W.  A.  M., 

Ukiah,  California,  1915. 


CROSSING  THE  PLAINS 
DAYS  OF  '57 


CHAPTER  I. 

FORSAKING     THE     OLD     IN     QUEST     OF 

THE     NEW.       FIRST     CAMP. 

FORDING    THE    PLATTE. 

We  left  the  west  bank  of  the  Mis- 
souri River  on  May  17,  1857.  Our 
objective  point  was  Sonoma  County, 
California. 

The  company  consisted  of  thirty- 
seven  persons,  including  several  fam- 
ilies, and  some  others;  the  individuals 
ranging  in  years  from  middle  age  to 
babies:  eleven  men,  ten  women  and 
sixteen  minors ;  the  eldest  of  the  party 
forty-nine,  the  most  youthful,  a  boy 
two  months  old  the  day  we  started. 
Most  of  these  were  persons  who  had 
resided  for  a  time  at  least  not  far 
[i] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

from  the  starting  point,  but  not  all 
were  natives  of  that  section,  some  hav- 
ing emigrated  from  Indiana,  Kentucky, 
Tennessee  and  Virginia. 

We  were  outfitted  with  eight  wag- 
ons, about  thirty  yoke  of  oxen,  fifty 
head  of  extra  steers  and  cows,  and  ten 
or  twelve  saddle  ponies  and  mules. 

The  vehicles  were  light,  well-built 
farm  wagons,  arranged  and  fitted  for 
economy  of  space  and  weight.  Most 
of  the  wagons  were  without  brakes, 
seats  or  springs.  The  axles  were  of 
wood,  which,  in  case  of  their  breaking, 
could  be  repaired  en  route.  Chains 
were  used  for  deadlocking  the  wheels 
while  moving  down  steep  places. 

No  lines  or  halters  of  any  kind 
were  used  on  the  oxen  for  guiding 
them,  these  animals  being  managed  en- 
tirely by  use  of  the  ox-whip  and  the 
"ox- word."  The  whip  was  a  braided 
leathern  lash,  six  to  eight  feet  long, 
the  most  approved  stock  for  which  was 
a  hickory  sapling,  as  long  as  the  lash, 

[2] 


The  Outfit 

and  on  the  extremity  of  the  lash  was 
a  strip  of  buckskin,  for  a  "cracker," 
which,  when  snapped  by  a  practiced 
driver,  produced  a  sound  like  the  re- 
port of  a  pistol.  The  purpose  of  the 
whip  was  well  understood  by  the 
trained  oxen,  and  that  implement  en- 
abled a  skillful  driver  to  regulate  the 
course  of  a  wagon  almost  as  accurately 
as  if  the  team  were  of  horses,  with  the 
reins  in  the  hands  of  an  expert  jehu. 

An  emigrant  wagon  such  as  de- 
scribed, provided  with  an  oval  top 
cover  of  white  ducking,  with  "flaps"  in 
front  and  a  "puckering-string"  at  the 
rear,  came  to  be  known  in  those  days 
as  a  "prairie  schooner;"  and  a  string 
of  them,  drawn  out  in  single  file  in  the 
daily  travel,  was  a  "train."  Trains 
following  one  another  along  the  same 
new  pathway  were  sometimes  strung 
out  for  hundreds  of  miles,  with  spaces 
of  a  few  hundred  yards  to  several 
miles  between,  and  were  many  weeks 
passing  a  given  point. 

[3] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

Our  commissary  wagon  was  supplied 
with  flour,  bacon,  coffee,  tea,  sugar, 
rice,  salt,  and  so  forth;  rations  esti- 
mated to  last  for  five  or  six  months,  if 
necessary;  also  medical  supplies,  and 
whatever  else  we  could  carry  to  meet 
the  probable  necessities  and  the  pos- 
sible casualties  of  the  journey;  with 
the  view  of  traveling  tediously  but 
patiently  over  a  country  of  roadless 
plains  and  mountains,  crossing  deserts 
and  fording  rivers ;  meanwhile  cooking, 
eating  and  sleeping  on  the  ground  as 
we  should  find  it  from  day  to  day. 

The  culinary  implements  occupied  a 
compartment  of  their  own  in  a  wagon, 
consisting  of  such  kettles,  long-handled 
frying-pans  and  sheet-iron  coffee  pots 
as  could  be  used  on  a  camp-fire,  with 
table  articles  almost  all  of  tin.  Those 
who  attempted  to  carry  the  more 
friable  articles,  owing  to  the  thumps 
and  falls  to  which  these  were  subjected, 
found  themselves  short  in  supply  of 
utensils  long  before  the  journey  ended. 

[4] 


The  Start 

I  have  seen  a  man  and  wife  drinking 
coffee  from  one  small  tin  pan,  their 
china  and  delftware  having  been  left 
in  fragments  to  decorate  the  desert 
wayside. 

We  had  some  tents,  but  they  were 
little  used,  after  we  learned  how  to  do 
without  them,  excepting  in  cases  of 
inclement  weather,  of  which  there  was 
very  little,  especially  in  the  latter  part 
of  the  trip. 

During  the  great  rush  of  immigra- 
tion into  California  subsequent  to 
1849,  from  soon  after  the  discovery  of 
gold  until  this  time,  the  usual  date  at 
which  the  annual  emigrants  started 
from  the  settlement  borders  along  the 
Missouri  River  was  April  15th  to  May 
1st.  The  Spring  of  1857  was  late,  and 
we  did  not  pull  out  until  May  17th, 
when  the  prairie  grass  was  grown 
sufficiently  to  afford  feed  for  the  stock, 
and  summer  weather  was  assured. 

At  that  time  the  boundary  line  be- 
tween the  "States"  and  the  "Plains" 

[5] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

was  the  Missouri  River.  We  crossed 
that  river  at  a  point  about  half-way 
between  St.  Joseph  and  Council  Bluffs, 
where  the  village  of  Brownville  was 
the  nucleus  of  a  first  settlement  of 
white  people  on  the  Nebraska  side. 
There  the  river  was  a  half-mile  wide. 
The  crossing  was  effected  by  means  of 
an  old-fashioned  ferryboat  or  scow, 
propelled  by  a  small,  stern-wheeled 
steamer.  Two  days  were  consumed  in 
transporting  our  party  and  equipment 
across  the  stream;  but  one  wagon  and 
a  few  of  the  people  and  animals  being 
taken  at  each  trip  of  the  ferryboat  and 
steamer. 

From  the  landing  we  passed  up  the 
west  shore  twenty  miles,  seeing  occa- 
sionally a  rude  cabin  or  a  foundation 
of  logs,  indicating  the  intention  of 
pre-empters.  This  brought  us  to  the 
town  of  Nebraska  City,  then  a  begin- 
ning of  a  dozen  or  twenty  houses,  on 
the  west  bank.  Omaha  was  not  yet  on 
the  map ;  although  where  that  thriving 

[6] 


Leaving   Civilization 

city  now  stands  there  existed  then  a 
settlement  of  something  over  one  hun- 
dred persons. 

From  Nebraska  City  we  bore  off 
northwesterly,  separating  ourselves 
from  civilization,  and  thereafter  saw 
no  more  evidence  of  the  white  man's 
purpose  to  occupy  the  country  over 
which  we  traveled. 

There  was  before  us  the  sky-bound 
stretch  of  undulating  prairie,  spread- 
ing far  and  wide,  like  a  vast  field  of 
young,  growing  grain,  its  monotony 
relieved  only  by  occasional  clumps  of 
small  trees,  indicating  the  presence  of 
springs  or  small  water-courses. 

Other  companies  or  trains,  from 
many  parts  of  the  country,  especially 
the  Middle  States,  were  crossing  the 
Missouri  at  various  points  between  St. 
Louis  and  Council  Bluffs ;  most  of  them 
converging  eventually  into  one  general 
route,  as  they  got  out  on  the  journey. 

It  is  perhaps  impossible  to  convey  a 
clear  understanding  of  the   emotions 

[7] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

experienced  by  one  starting  on  such  a 
trip;  leaving  friends  and  the  familiar 
surroundings  of  what  had  been  home, 
to  face  a  siege  of  travel  over  thousands 
of  miles  of  wilderness,  so  little  known 
and  fraught  with  so  much  of  hardship 
and  peril. 

The  earlier  emigrants,  gold-hunters, 
men  only — men  of  such  stuff  as  pio- 
neers usually  are  made  of — carried 
visions  of  picking  up  fortunes  in  the 
California  gold  mines  and  soon  return- 
ing to  their  former  haunts.  But  those 
who  were  going  now  felt  that  they 
were  burning  all  bridges  behind  them; 
that  all  they  had  was  with  them,  and 
they  were  going  to*  stay. 

Formerly  we  had  heard  that  Cali- 
fornia was  good  only  for  its  gold 
mines;  that  it  was  a  country  of  rocks, 
crags  and  deserts;  where  it  rained 
ceaselessly  during  half  of  the  year 
and  not  at  all  in  the  other  half.*  But 
later  we  had  been  told  that  in  the  val- 
leys there  was  land  on  which  crops  of 

[8] 


Anticipations 

wheat  could  be  grown,  and  that  cattle 
raising  was  good,  on  the  broad  acres 
of  wild  oats  everywhere  in  the  "cow 
counties/ '  It  was  told  us  also  that 
there  were  strips  of  redwood  forest 
along  the  coast,  and  these  trees,  a  hun- 
dred to  several  hundred  feet  in  height, 
could  be  split  into  boards  ten  to  twenty 
feet  long,  for  building  purposes;  and 
that  this  material  was  to  be  had  by 
anybody  for  the  taking.  Some  said 
that  the  Spanish  padres,  at  their  mis- 
sions in  several  localities  near  the 
Pacific  shore,  had  planted  small  vine- 
yards of  what  had  come  to  be  known 
as  the  "Mission"  grape,  which  pro- 
duced enormous  crops.  Another  report 
told  us  that  other  fruits,  including  the 
orange  and  lemon  varieties,  so  far  as 
tried,  gave  promise  of  being  valuable 


*As  late  as  March,  1850,  Daniel  Webster  said  in 
the  United  States  Senate:  "California  is  Asiatic  in 
formation  and  scenery;  composed  of  vast  mountains 
of  enormous  height,  with  broken  ridges  and  deep 
valleys.  The  sides  of  these  mountains  are  barren — 
entirely  barren — their  tops  capped  by  perennial 
snow. ' ' 

[9] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

products  of  the  valley  and  foothill  soils. 
Such  stories  gave  rise  to  a  malady 
called  "California  fever."  It  was  con- 
tagious, and  carried  off  many  people. 

Our  first  camp  was  on  the  open 
prairie,  where  grass  grew  about  four 
inches  high,  and  a  small  spring  fur- 
nished an  ample  supply  of  water. 
Firewood  we  had  brought  with  us  for 
that  night.  The  weather  was  very  fine, 
and  all  were  joyous  at  the  novelty  of 
"camping  out." 

On  or  about  the  eighth  day  we  came 
to  the  Platte  River;  broad,  muddy 
stream,  at  some  points  a  mile  or  more 
in  width ;  shallow,  but  running  rapidly, 
between  low  banks;  its  many  small 
islands  wholly  covered  by  growths  of 
cottonwood  trees  and  small  willows. 
From  these  islands  we  obtained  from 
time  to  time  the  fuel  needed  for  the 
camp,  as  we  took  our  course  along  the 
river's  southerly  shore;  and  occasion- 
ally added  to  the  contents  of  the  "grub" 
wagon  by  capturing  an  elk  or  deer 

[10] 


The  Platte 

that  had  sought  covert  in  the  cool  shade 
of  these  island  groves.  Antelope  also 
were  there,  but  too  wary  for  our 
huntsmen. 


"Fording  the  Platte  consumed  one  entire  day" 

We  forded  the  Platte  at  a  point 
something  like  one  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  westward  from  its  confluence 
with  the  Missouri.  There  was  no  road 
leading  into  the  river,  nor  any  evidence 
of  its  having  been  crossed  by  any  one, 
[in 


Crossing  the  Plains 

at  that  place.  We  were  informed  that 
the  bottom  was  of  quicksand,  and  ford- 
ing, therefore,  dangerous.  We  tested 
it,  by  riding  horses  across.  Contrary 
to  our  expectations,  the  bottom  was 
found  to  be  a  surface  of  smooth  sand, 
packed  hard  enough  to  bear  up  the 
wagons,  when  the  movement  was  quick 
and  continuous.  A  cut  was  made  in 
the  bank,  to  form  a  runway  for  pas- 
sage of  the  wagons  to  the  water's  edge ; 
and  the  whole  train  crossed  the  stream 
safely,  with  no  further  mishap  than 
the  wetting  of  a  driver  and  the  dipping 
of  a  wagon  into  a  place  deep  enough 
to  let  water  into  the  box.  Fording  the 
Platte  consumed  one  entire  day.  We 
camped  that  night  on  the  north  shore. 
The  train  continued  along  the  gen- 
eral course  of  the  river  about  four  hun- 
dred miles,  as  far  as  Fort  Laramie, 
through  open  country,  in  which  there 
was  an  abundance  of  feed  for  the 
animals,  but  where  wood  for  fuel  was 
scarce. 

[12] 


CHAPTER  II. 

LARAMIE     FASHIONS     AND     SIOUX     ETI- 
QUETTE.      A    TROPHY.       CHIMNEY 
ROCK.     A  SOLITARY  EMIGRANT. 
JESTS  AND  JINGLES 

The  Laramie  and  Sioux  Indians  were 
in  those  days  the  lords  of  that  portion 
of  the  plains  over  which  we  traveled 
during  the  first  several  weeks. 

They  were  fine  specimens  of  physical 
manhood.  Tall,  erect,  well  propor- 
tioned, they  carried  themselves  with  a 
distinct  air  of  personal  importance  and 
dignity.  They  had  not  taken  to  the 
white  man's  mode  of  dress.  Each  had, 
in  addition  to  his  buckskin  breeches 
and  moccasins,  a  five-point  Mackinaw 
blanket,  these  comprising  for  him  a 
complete  suit.  The  blanket  he  used  as 
an  outer  garment,  when  needed,  and 
for  his  cover  at  night.     Many  of  the 

[13] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

more  important  "big  injins"  owned  also 
a  buffalo  robe.  This  was  the  whole 
hide  of  the  buffalo,  with  the  hair  on  it, 


"Wo-haw-Buck" 

the  inner  side  tanned  to  a  soft,  pliable 
leather,  and  the  irregularities  of  its 
natural  shape  neatly  cut  away.  It 
furnished  the  owner  an  excellent  storm 

[14] 


Animal  Life 

robe,  sufficient  protection,  head  to  foot, 
in  the  severest  weather. 

The  Indians  of  these  tribes  that  we 
met  were  friendly,  even  to  familiarity. 
One  of  them  would  approach  an  emi- 
grant with  a  "glad-to-meet-you"  air, 
extending  a  hand  in  what  was  intended 
to  be  "white-man"  fashion.  But  "Mr. 
Lo"  was  a  novice  in  the  art  of  hand- 
shaking, and  his  awkardness  and  mim- 
icking attempts  in  the  effort  were  as 
amusing  to  us  as  satisfactory,  appar- 
ently, to  him.  His  vocal  greeting,  with 
slight  variation  from  time  to  time, 
was  in  such  words — with  little  regard 
for  their  meaning — as  he  had  caught 
from  the  ox-driving  dialect  of  the 
passing  emigrants:  "Wo-haw-buck," 
"Hello,  John,  got  tobac?"  If  he  added 
"Gimme  biskit,"  and  "Pappoose  heap 
sick,"  he  had  about  reached  the  limit  of 
his  English  vocabulary. 

Large  game  was  common  along  some 
parts  of  the  way :  buffalo,  elk,  antelope, 
deer,   on   the  plains   and  hills;   bear, 

[15] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

mountain  lions,  wildcats  and  other 
species  in  the  mountainous  sections. 
They  were  shy  and  not  easy  to  take, 
but  we  captured  a  few  of  some  vari- 
eties. Some  members  of  the  party  dem- 
onstrated that  fishing  was  good  in  the 
Rocky  Mountain  streams.  Naturally 
the  men  were  hopeful  of  securing  speci- 
mens of  the  larger  game,  but  our  lack 
of  experience  and  scarcity  of  proper 
equipment  for  the  purpose  were  against 
the  chance,  though  not  to  the  extent  of 
our  entire  disappointment. 

Only  persons  of  much  experience  on 
the  plains  could  form  even  an  approx- 
imate estimate  of  the  great  number  of 
buffaloes  sometimes  seen  together.  It 
has  been  stated  that  there  were  herds 
numbering  more  than  fifty  thousand. 
Such  an  aggregation  would  consume 
days  in  passing  a  given  point,  and  in 
case  of  a  stampede,  all  other  animals 
in  its  path  were  doomed  to  destruction. 
A  herd  of  buffaloes  quietly  grazing  was 
sometimes  difficult  to  distinguish,  when 

[16] 


A  Buffalo  Hunt 

viewed  from  a  considerable  distance, 
from  a  low  forest;  their  rounded  bodies 
and  the  neutral  tint  of  their  shaggy 
coats  giving  them  the  appearance  of 
bushes. 

When  the  train  was  nearing  the  fork 
of  the  Platte  River  a  herd  of  buffaloes 
was  seen,  quietly  grazing  on  the  plain, 
a  mile  or  more  to  the  right,  beyond  a 
small  water-course. 

Deciding  we  would  try  our  prowess, 
Captain  Maxwell  and  this  narrator 
rode  to  the  creek,  at  a  point  some  dis- 
tance below  the  position  of  the  herd, 
where  we  tied  our  horses,  then  crept 
along,  under  cover  of  the  creek  bank, 
till  we  had  gone  as  near  as  possible, 
without  being  seen  by  the  herd,  distant 
from  us  not  much  more  than  a  hundred 
yards. 

Cautiously  peering  above  the  edge  of 
the  bank,  we  selected  a  choice  buffalo 
among  those  nearest  us,  and  both  fired. 
The  entire  herd  galloped  wildly  away, 
continuing  till  all  passed  from  view 

[17] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

over  a  hill  some  miles  northward.  Not 
one  showed  sign  of  having  been  hit. 

As  we  were  about  to  leave  the  place, 
what  should  we  see  but  a  lonely  buffalo, 
coming  down  the  slope  toward  where 
we  were,  moving  with  leisurely  tread 
and  manner  perfectly  unconcerned. 
Notwithstanding  our  recent  firing,  this 
animal  evidently  had  no  suspicion 
of  our  presence.  We  remained  and 
awaited  his  coming. 

He  walked  a  few  steps,  then  browsed 
a  little,  as  if  in  no  hurry  about  any- 
thing. Captain  John  and  I  felt  our 
hope  rise;  we  laid  our  plans  and 
waited  patiently. 

Just  where  the  buffalo  trail  led  down 
the  bank  of  the  creek,  there  were,  as 
in  many  places  near  the  stream,  some 
scattered  cottonwood  and  other  trees. 
One  of  these  that  once  stood  on  the 
brink  had  fallen  till  its  top  caught  in 
the  fork  of  another  tree,  and  rested  at 
a  gentle  incline  upward  from  where  it 
had  grown.    At  the  roots  of  this  fallen 

[18] 


Effective  Shots 

tree  we  concealed  ourselves,  to  wait, 
hoping  that  the  big  animal  would  come 
down  to  the  water,  but  a  few  yards 
from  us;  for  we  guessed  that  he  was 
one  that  had  not  yet  had  his  drink  from 
the  brook  that  day,  and  was  determined 
not  to  leave  until  he  slaked  his  thirst. 

It  was  an  anxious  while  of  waiting, 
but  not  long.  I  was  fearful  that  my 
hard-thumping  heart-beats  would  be 
audible  and  frighten  him  away,  Could 
it  be  true  that  I  had  an  attack  of 
"buck-ague"  ?   Perish  the  thought. 

Finally  his  bovine  majesty  came 
lazily  over  the  top  of  the  bank,  with  a 
heavy,  slow  motion ;  grunting  and  puff- 
ing, as  if  he  were  almost  too  heavy  for 
his  legs.  When  he  got  to  the  bottom  of 
the  bank  and  was  about  to  drink,  Cap- 
tain John  whispered  our  agreed  signal : 
"One,  two,  three;"  we  fired,  simultane- 
ously, and  repeated.  The  big  fellow 
stood  still  for  a  moment  after  the  shots 
and  looked  about,  with  a  slow  move- 
ment and  stolid  gaze,  turning  his  head 

[19] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

questioningly  from  side  to  side,  as  if  he 
would  say,  "I  thought  I  heard  some- 
thing pop." 

Somehow  wTe  knew  we  had  hit  him, 
and  we  wondered  why  he  did  not  fall. 
His  little,  black  eyes  rolled  and  glinted 
under  his  shaggy  foretop.  Then  he 
seemed  to  swell;  crouching  slightly,  as 
does  a  beast  of  prey  when  about  to 
spring;  lowered  his  head,  pawed  the 
earth  and  shook  his  mane.  His  whole 
body  became  vibrant  with  the  obvious 
desire  to  fight, — and  no  antagonist  in 
sight.  Uttering  a  tremendous  grunt, 
he  arched  his  back  again,  stamping 
with  all  four  feet,  somewhat  like  the 
capers  of  a  Mexican  "broncho"  when 
preparing  to  buck";  then  he  snorted 
once  more,  with  such  explosive  force  as 
seemed  to  shake  the  tree  beside  which 
we  were  hidden,  as  he  looked  about  for 
something  to  pitch  into. 

By  this  time  we  thought  we  under- 
stood   why    a    kind    Providence    had 

[20] 


A   Prize  Captured 

caused  that  cottonwood  tree  to  lodge  at 
such  an  angle  that  a  buffalo  could  not 
climb  it,  but  we  could — and  we  did. 
Getting  ourselves  safely  into  the  fork 


'Prom  our  coign  of  vantage  we  continued  to  shoot" 


of  the  tree,  we  continued  to  shoot  from 
our  coign  of  vantage  till  the  big  fellow 
dropped.  When  he  ceased  to  kick  or 
give  any  sign  of  belligerency,  we  came 

[  21  ] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

down  and  approached  him,  carefully. 
Then  we  dressed  him,  or  as  much  of 
him  as  we  could  carry  in  two  bags  that 
we  had  strapped  behind  our  saddles, 
and  rejoined  the  train  after  our  people 
had  gone  into  camp  for  the  night. 


UJ  \ 

Chimney  Rock 

We  had  our  first  buffalo  steak  for 
supper  that  night.  We  also  had  the 
satisfaction  of  observing  signs  of  jeal- 
ousy on  the  part  of  the  other  men  who 
had  never  killed  a  buffalo. 

One  of  the  first  natural  curiosities 
we  saw  was  Chimney  Rock;  a  vertical 

[22] 


Pike's  Peak  Afar 

column  of  sandstone  something  like 
forty  feet  high,  with  a  rugged  stone 
bluff  rising  abruptly  near  it.  Its  ap- 
pearance, from  our  distant  view,  re- 
sembled a  stone  chimney  from  which 
the  building  had  been  burned  away,  as 
it  stood,  solitary  on  the  flat  earth  at 
the  south  side  of  the  Platte  River,  we 
traveling  up  the  north  shore.  Such  a 
time-chiseled  monument  was  a  novelty 
to  us  then.  To  the  early  emigrants  it 
was  the  first  notable  landmark. 

While  some  distance  farther  west,  as 
we  scaled  the  higher  slopes,  we  could 
see  to  the  southward  the  snow-capped 
peaks  of  that  region  which  long  after- 
ward was  taken  from  western  Ne- 
braska to  become  the  Territory  of 
Colorado,  and  later  still,  the  State  of 
that  name.  Looking  over  and  past  the 
locality  where,  more  than  a  year  there- 
after, the  town  of  Denver  was  laid  out, 
we  saw,  during  several  weeks,  the 
summit  of  Pike's  Peak,  hundreds  of 
miles  away. 

[23] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

One  evening  when  we  were  going 
into  eamp  we  were  overtaken  by  a  man 
trundling  a  push-cart.  This  vehicle 
had  between  its  wheels  a  box  containing 
the  man's  supplies  of  food  and  camp 
articles,  with  the  blankets,  which  were 
in  a  roll,  placed  on  top;  all  strapped 
down  under  an  oilcloth  cover. 

With  this  simple  outfit,  pushed  in 
front  of  him,  this  man  was  making 
his  way  from  one  of  the  Eastern 
States  to  California,  a  distance  of  more 
than  three  thousand  miles.  He  was  of 
medium  size,  athletic  appearance,  with 
a  cheerful  face.  He  visited  us  over- 
night. The  next  morning  he  was  in- 
vited to  tie  his  cart  behind  one  of  our 
wagons  and  ride  with  us.  He  replied 
that  he  would  be  pleased  to  do  so,  but 
was  anxious  to  make  all  possible  speed, 
and  felt  that  he  could  not  wait  on  the 
progress  of  our  train,  which  was  some- 
what slower  than  the  pace  he  main- 
tained. It  was  said  that  he  was  the 
first  man  who  made  the  entire  trip  on 

[24] 


Youthful  Exuberance 

foot  and  alone,  from  coast  to  coast,  as 
we  were  afterwards  informed  he  suc- 
ceeded in  doing. 

From  time  to  time  the  tedium  was 
dispelled  by  varied  incidents;  many 
that  were  entertaining  and  instructive, 
some  ludicrous,  some  pathetic,  and 
others  profoundly  tragic.  Agreeable 
happenings  predominated  largely  dur- 
ing the  early  stages,  and  those  involv- 
ing difficulties  and  of  grave  import 
were  mainly  a  part  of  our  experiences 
toward  the  close  of  the  long  pilgrimage. 
Such  an  order  of  events  might  be  pre- 
sumed as  a  natural  sequence,  as  the 
route  led  first  over  a  territory  not 
generally  difficult  to  travel,  but  farther 
and  farther  from  established  civiliza- 
tion, into  rougher  lands,  and  toward 
those  regions  where  outlawry,  common 
to  all  pioneer  conditions,  was  prevalent. 

With  our  company  were  four  or 
five  boys  and  young  men,  eighteen  to 
twenty-one  years  of  age,  also  a. kindly 
and  unpretentious  but  droll  young  fel- 

[25] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

low,  named  John  C.  Aston,  whose  age 
was  about  twenty-five.  This  younger 
element  was  responsible  for  most  of 
the  occurrences  of  lighter  vein,  which 
became  a  feature  of  our  daily  progress. 
Aston's  intimate  friends  called  him 
"Jack,"  and  some  of  the  more  face- 
tious ones  shortened  the  cognomen 
"Jack  Aston"  by  dropping  the  "ton," 
inconsiderately  declaring  that  the 
briefer  appellation  fitted  the  man,  even 
better  than  did  his  coat,  which  always 
was  loose  about  the  shoulders  and  too 
long  in  the  sleeves.  But  all  knew 
"Jack"  to  be  an  excellent  fellow.  His 
principal  fault,  if  it  could  be  so  termed, 
was  a  superabundance  of  good-nature, 
a  willingness  at  all  times  to  joke  and 
be  joked.  He  had  a  fund  of  stories — 
in  some  of  which  he  pictured  himself 
the  hero — with  which  he  was  wont  to 
relieve  the  tedium  of  the  evening 
hours,  i  A  violin  was  among  his  effects, 
which .  he  played  to  accompany  his 
singing    of    entertaining    countryside 

[26] 


Songs  and  Stories 

songs.  Most  of  these  were  melodious, 
and  highly  descriptive.  "Jack"  had 
much  music  in  his  soul,  and  sang  with 
good  effect. 

There  was  one  melody  that  he  sang 
oftenest,  and  sang  from  the  heart — 


"One  melody  that  he  sang  from  the  heart" 

one  that  was  rendered  nightly,  regard- 
less of  any  variation  in  the  program; 
a  composition  that  embraced  seventeen 
verses,  each  followed  by  a  soothing 
lullaby  refrain;  a  song  which,  every 
time  he  sang  it,  carried  "Jack"  again 
to  his  old  home  in  the  Sunny  South, 

[27] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

and  seemed  to  give  him  surcease  from 
all  the  ills  of  life.  Of  that  song  a 
single  verse  is  here  reproduced,  with 
deep  regret  that  the  other  sixteen  are 
lost,  with  all  except  a  small  fraction  of 
the  tune.  Yet,  cold,  inanimate  music 
notes  on  the  paper  would  convey,  to 
one  who  never  heard  him  sing  them, 
only  the  skeleton;  the  life,  sympathy 
and  soul  of  the  song  would  be  lacking. 
We  needed  no  other  soporific.  Here 
it  is: 

Oh,  the  days  of  bygone  joys, 

They  never  will  come  back  to  me; 

When  I  was  with  the  girls  and  boys, 
A-courting,  down  in  Tennessee. 

Ulee,  ilee,  aloo,  ee — 
Courting,  down  in  Tennessee. 

It  was  "Jack's"  habit  to  allow  his 
head  to  hang  to  the  left,  due,  pre- 
sumably, to  much  practice  in  holding 
down  the  large  end  of  his  violin  with 
his  chin.  He  was  prone  to  sleep  a 
great  deal,  and  even  as  he  sat  in  the 
driver's  seat  of  a  "prairie-schoner," 
or   astride   a   mule,   the   attitude   de- 

[28] 


Jokes,   Highly   Practical 

scribed  often  resulted  in  his  being  ac- 
cused of  napping  while  on  duty.  The 
climatic  conditions  peculiar  to  the 
plains,  and  the  slow,  steady  movement 
of  the  conveyances,  were  conducive  to 
drowsiness,  in  consequence  of  which 
everybody  was  all  the  time  sleepy. 
But  "Jack"  was  born  that  way,  and 
the  very  frequent  evidences  of  it  in 
his  case  led  to  a  general  understand- 
ing that,  whenever  he  was  not  in  sight, 
he  was  hidden  away  somewhere  asleep. 

"Jack's"  amiability,  too,  was  a  per- 
manent condition.  Apparently  no  one 
could  make  him  angry  or  resentful. 
For  this  reason,  he  was  the  target  for 
many  pranks  perpetrated  by  the  boys. 
Like  this: 

One  evening  "Jack"  took  his  blan- 
ket and  located  for  the  night  at  a  spot 
apart  from  the  others  of  the  company, 
under  a  convenient  sage  bush.  The 
next  morning  he  was  overlooked  until 
after  breakfast.  When  the  time  came 
for  hitching  the  teams,  he  was  not  at 

[29] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

his  post.  A  search  finally  revealed 
him,  still  rolled  in  his  bedding,  fast 
asleep.     When  several  calls  failed  to 


"Hauled  the  delinquent  out" 

arouse  him,  one  of  the  boys  tied  an 
end  of  a  rope  around  "Jack's"  feet, 
hitched  a  pair  of  oxen  to  the  other 
end,  and  hauled  the  delinquent  out 
some  distance  on  the  sand.  "Jack" 
sat  up,  unconcernedly  rubbed  his  eyes, 
then  began  untying  the  rope  that 
bound  his  feet,  his  only  comment 
being— 

"Ulee,  ilee,  aloo,  ee; 

Courting,  down  in  Tennessee." 

[30] 


CHAPTER  III. 

LOST    IN    THE    BLACK    HILLS.       DEVIL'S 

GATE.      WHY   A    MOUNTAIN   SHEEP 

DID    NOT    WINK.      GREEN 

RIVER     FERRY. 

At  Fort  Laramie  we  left  the  Platte 
River,  and,  bearing  northwesterly,  en- 
tered the  Black  Hills,  a  region  of  low, 
rolling  uplands,  sparsely  grown  with 
scrubby  pine  trees;  the  soil  black,  very 
dry;  where  little  animal  life  was  vis- 
ible, excepting  prairie  dogs. 

There  may  be  readers  who,  at  the 
mention  of  prairie  dogs,  see  mentally 
a  wolf  or  other  specimen  of  the  genus 
canis,  of  ordinary  kind  and  size.  The 
prairie  dog,  however,  is  not  of  the 
dog  species.  It  bears  some  resem- 
blance to  a  squirrel  and  a  rat,  but  is 
larger  than  either.  It  may  be  likened 
to  the  canine  only  in  that  it  barks, 
4 31  ] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

somewhat  as  do  small  dogs.  Prairie 
dogs  live  in  holes,  dug  by  themselves. 
Twenty  to  fifty  of  these  holes  may  be 
seen  within  a  radius  of  a  few  yards, 
and  such  communities  are  known  to 
plains  people  as  "towns."  On  the  ap- 
proach of  anything  they  fear  the  little 
fellows  sit  erect,  look  defiant  and  chat- 
ter saucily.  If  the  intruder  comes 
too  near,  the  commanding  individual 
of  the  group,  the  mayor  of  the  town, 
so  to  speak,  gives  an  alarm,  plainly 
interpreted  as,  "Beware;  make  safe; 
each  man  for  himself;"  and  instantly 
each  one  turns  an  exquisite  somersault 
and  disappears,  as  he  drops,  head 
downward,  into  the  hole  beside  him. 

John  L.  Maxwell  had  made  the  trip 
over  the  plains  from  the  Missouri 
River  to  California  in  1854,  returning, 
via  Panama,  in  1856,  to  take  his  family 
to  the  West,  accompanying  the  train 
of  his  elder  brother,  Dr.  Kennedy 
Maxwell.  He  was  of  great  service  to 
us  now,  by  reason  of  his  experience 

[32} 


Off  the  Trail 

and  consequent  knowledge  of  the  coun- 
try traversed.  He  was  therefore 
elected  to  act  as  pilot  of  the  company, 
with  the  title  "Captain  John,"  which 
clung  to  him  for  many  years. 

The  emigrant  trail  in  some  parts  of 
the  way  was  well  marked.  In  other 
places  there  was  none,  and  we  had  to 
find  our  way  as  best  we  could,  not 
always  without  difficulty.  Often  Cap- 
tain John  and  others  would  ride  ahead 
of  the  train  a  considerable  distance, 
select  routes  for  passage  through 
places  where  travel  was  hard  or  risky, 
choose  camp-sites,  and,  returning,  pilot 
the  train  accordingly. 

At  various  times,  despite  every  care 
in  selecting  the  route,  the  train  went 
on  a  wrong  course,  and  at  least  once 
was  completely  astray.  This  was  one 
morning  as  the  company  was  passing 
out  of  the  Black  Hills  country.  Infor- 
mation had  been  received  that  at  this 
place  a  short-cut  could  be  made  which 
would   save  fifteen   or  twenty  miles. 

[33] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

There  were  no  marks  on  the  ground 
indicating  that  any  train  ahead  had 
gone  that  way,  but  the  leaders  decided 
to  try  it.  This  venture  led  the  com- 
pany ilfto  a  situation  not  unlike  the 
proverbial  "jumping-off  place." 

Directly  in  our  course  was  a  decliv- 
ity which  dropped  an  estimated  depth 
of  sixty  to  one  hundred  feet  below  the 
narrow,  stony  flat  on  which  we  stood, 
down  into  a  depressed  valley.  Abrupt 
ridges  of  broken  stone  formation  were 
^on  our  right  and  left,  inclosing  us  in 
a  small  space  of  barren,  waste  earth. 
The  elements  had  crumbled  the  rocks 
down  for  ages,  until  what  perhaps  had 
been  once  a  deep  canyon  was  now  a 
narrow  flat,  a  mass  of  debris,  termi- 
nating at  the  top  of  the  steep,  ragged 
cliff  that  pitched  downward  before  us. 
The  high,  rocky  ridges  on  both  sides 
were  wholly  impassable,  at  least  for 
the  teams.  A  search  finally  disclosed, 
at  the  base  of  the  ridge  on  our  right, 
a  single  possible  passage.    It  was  nar- 

[34] 


Passage  Barred 

row,  slightly  wider  than  a  wagon,  and 
led  downward  at  a  steep  incline,  into 
the  valley  below,  with  rocks  protrud- 
ing from  both  its  side  walls,  its  bottom 
strewn  with  stones  such  as  our  vehicles 
could  not  pass  over  in  an  ordinary 
way. 

We  were  confronted  with  the  prob- 
lem how  to  get  the  wagons  down  that 
yawning  fissure;  the  alternative  being 
to  retrace  our  steps  many  miles. 

At  the  bottom  of  this  cliff  or  wall 
that  barred  our  way  could  be  seen  a 
beautiful  valley,  stretching  far  and 
wide  away  to  the  northwest;  a  scene 
of  enchanting  loveliness,  a  refreshing 
contrast  to  the  dry  and  nearly  barren 
hills  over  which  we  had  traveled  dur- 
ing the  many  days  last  past.  A  short 
distance  from  the  foot  of  the  wall  was 
a  small  stream  of  clear  water,  running 
over  the  meadow-flat.  Rich  pasture 
extended  along  the  line  of  trees  that 
marked  the  serpentine  course  of  the 
brook  which  zigzagged  its  way  toward 

[35] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

the  southwest.  Every  man,  woman 
and  child  of  our  company  expressed  in 
some  way  the  declaration,  "We  must 
get  into  that  beautiful  oasis."  It 
looked  like  field,  park  and  orchard,  in 
one  landscape;  all  fenced  off  from  the 
desolate  surroundings  by  this  wall 
of  stone.  Like  Moses  viewing  Canaan 
from  Nebo's  top,  we  looked  down  and 
yearned,  to  be  amidst  its  freshness. 

It  was  not  decreed  that  we  should 
not  enter  in.  A  little  distance  to  the 
south,  near  the  other  ridge,  we  discov- 
ered another  opening,  through  which 
the  animals  could  be  driven  down,  but 
through  which  the  wagons  could  not 
pass.  This  was  a  narrow,  crooked 
ravine,  and  very  steep;  running  diag- 
onally down  through  the  cliff;  a  sort 
of  dry  water-way,  entirely  bridged 
over  in  one  part  by  an  arch  of  stone, 
making  it  there  a  natural  tunnel  or 
open-ended  cave;  terminating  at  the 
base  of  the  cliff  in  an  immense  door- 
way, opening  into  the  valley. 

[36] 


Overcoming  Obstacles 

The  teams  were  unhitched  from  the 
wagons,  the  yokes  taken  off  the  oxen, 
and  all  the  cattle,  horses  and  mules 
were  driven  through  the  inclined  tun- 
nel into  the  coveted  valley.  The  women 
and  children  clambered  down,  taking 
with  them  what  they  could  of  the  camp 
things,  for  immediate  use,  and  soon 
were  quite  "at  home"  in  the  valley, 
making  free  use  of  the  little  creek,  for 
whatever  purposes  a  little  creek  of 
pure,  cold,  fresh  water  is  good,  for  a 
lot  of  thirsty,  dust-covered  wayfarers. 

The  puzzle  of  getting  the  wagons 
down  next  engrossed  the  attention  of 
our  best  engineers.  The  proposition  to 
unpack  the  lading,  take  the  wagons 
apart,  and  carry  all  down  by  hand, 
appeared  for  a  time  to  be  the  only 
feasible  plan.  Captain  John,  however, 
suggested  procuring  rope  or  chain 
about  one  hundred  feet  in  length,  for 
use  in  lowering  the  wagons,  one  at  a 
time,  through  the  first-mentioned  pas- 
sage.   Sufficient  rope  was  brought,  one 

[S7] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

end  fastened  to  the  rear  axle  of  a 
wagon,  the  other  end  turned  around  a 
dwarf  pine  tree  at  the  top  of  the  bluff ; 
two  men  managed  the  rope,  preventing 


"The  wagons  were  lowered  through  the  crevice" 

too  rapid  descent  at  the  steeper  places, 
while  others  guided  the  wheels  over 
the  stones,  and  the  wagon  was  low- 
ered through  the  crevice,  with  little 
damage.     Thus,   one  by  one,   all  the 

[38] 


Descending  the  Steep 

wagons  were  taken  into  the  valley  be- 
fore the  sun  set. 

It  was  a  happy  camp  we  had  that 
night;  though  every  man  was  tired. 
There  was  wood  for  fire,  and  a  supply 
of  good  water  and  pasture  sufficient 
for  dozens  of  camps.  Some  one  ven- 
tured the  opinion  that  the  Mormon 
pioneers  had  overlooked  that  spot  when 
seeking  a  new  location  for  Zion. 

Except  that  it  was  very  pleasant  to 
inhabit,  we  knew  little  of  the  place  we 
had  ventured  into,  or  its  location.  How 
we  were  to  get  out  did  not  appear,  nor 
for  the  time  being  did  this  greatly  con- 
cern us;  and  soon  after  supper  the 
camp  was  wrapped  in  slumber,  undis- 
turbed by  any  coyote  duet,  or,  on  this 
occasion,  even  the  twitter  of  a  night 
bird. 

We  did  not  hurry  the  next  morning, 
the  inclination  being  to  linger  awhile 
in  the  shady  grove  by  the  brookside. 
With  a  late  start,  the  day's  travel  took 
us    some   twelve   miles,    through    and 

F39] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

out  of  the  valley,  to  a  point  where  we 
made  the  best  of  a  poor  camping  place, 
on  a  rough,  rocky  hillside.  The  fol- 
lowing day  there  was  no  road  to  follow, 
nor  even  a  buffalo  trail  or  bear  path ; 
but  by  evening  we  somehow  found  our 
way  back  into  the  course  usually  fol- 
lowed by  emigrants,  not  knowing 
whether  the  recent  detour  had  lessened 
or  increased  the  miles  of  travel,  but 
delighted  with  the  comfort  and  diver- 
sion afforded  by  the  side-ride.  Think- 
ing that  others,  seeing  our  tracks, 
might  be  led  into  similar  difficulties, 
and  be  less  fortunate  perhaps  in  over- 
coming them,  two  of  our  young  men 
rode  back  to  the  place  of  divergence, 
and  erected  a  notice  to  all  comers,  ad- 
vising them  to  "Keep  to  the  right." 

Another  freak  of  Nature  in  which 
we  were  much  interested  was  the 
"DeviPs  Gate,"  or  "Independence 
Rock,"  where  we  first  came  to  the 
Sweetwater  River,  in  Wyoming.  This 
is  a  granite  ridge,  some  two  hundred 

[40] 


Independence  Rock 

feet  in  length,  irregular  in  formation 
and  height,  resembling  a  huge  mole- 
hill, extending  down  from  the  Rocky 
Mountain  heights  and  being  across  the 
river's  course;  the  "Gate"  being  a  ver- 
tical section,  the  width  of  the  stream, 
cut  out  of  a  spur  of  Rattlesnake  Moun- 
tain. If  his  Satanic  majesty,  whose 
name  it  bears,  had  charge  of  the  con- 
struction, apparently  he  intended  it 
only  as  a  passage-way  for  the  river, 
the  cut  being  the  exact  width  of  the 
river  as  it  flows  through.  The  greater 
part  of  the  two  walls  stand  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  feet  high,  above  the 
river  level,  perpendicular  to  the  earth's 
plane,  facing  each  other,  the  river 
between  them  at  the  base.  Many 
names  had  been  cut  in  the  surface  of 
the  rock,  by  passing  emigrants. 

We  stopped  for  half  a  day  to  view 
this  extraordinary  scene.  Some  of  the 
boys  went  to  the  apex,  to  see  if  the 
downward  view  made  the  rock  walls 
appear   as   high   as    did   the   upward 

[41] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

view:  and  naturally  they  found  the 
distance  viewed  downward  seemed 
much  greater.  Our  intention  was  to 
stand  on  the  brink  and  experience  the 
sensation  of  looking  down  from  that 
great  height  at  the  river.  The  face 
of  the  wall  where  it  terminates  at  the 
top  forms  an  almost  square  corner,  as 
if  hewn  stone.  A  few  bushes  grew  a 
short  distance  from  the  edge,  and  as 
we  approached  the  brink  there  was  a 
sense  of  greater  safety  in  holding  onto 
these  bushes.  But  while  holding  on  we 
could  not  see  quite  over  to  the  water 
below.  We  formed  a  chain  of  three 
persons,  by  joining  hands,  one  grasp- 
ing a  large  bush,  that  the  outer  man 
might  look  over  the  edge — if  he  would. 
But  he  felt  shaky.  He  was  not  quite 
sure  that  the  bush  would  not  pull  up 
by  the  roots,  or  one  of  the  other  fellows 
let  go.  For  sometime  no  one  was  wil- 
ling to  make  a  real  effort  to  look  over 
the  edge,  but  finally  "Jack"  said  he 
would  save  the  party's  reputation  for 

[42] 


Viewing  DeviVs  Gate 

bravery,  by  assuming  the  role  of  end- 
man.  He  made  several  bold  approaches 
toward  the  edge,  but  each  time  re- 
coiled, and  soon  admitted  defeat 
"Boys,"  said  he,  "Fm  dizzy.  I  know 
that  'distance  lends  enchantment';  I'll 
get  back  farther,  take  the  best  view 
I  can  get,  and  preserve  the  enchant- 
ment." To  cover  his  discomfiture,  he 
started  for  camp,  whistling: 
"Ulee,  ilee,  aloo,  ee." 
The  next  excursion  off  the  route  in 
search  of  novelty  was  on  a  clear  after- 
noon a  few  days  after  passing  the 
"DeviPs  Gate,"  when  three  young  fel- 
lows decided  to  take  a  tramp  to  the 
rock  ridge  lying  to  our  right.  We 
hoped  to  find  some  mountain  sheep. 
From  the  Sweetwater  River  to  the 
ridge  was  apparently  half  a  mile, 
across  a  grassy  flat.  We  knew  that 
the  rare  atmosphere  of  that  high  alti- 
tude often  made  distances  deceiving, 
and  determined  to  make  due  allow- 
ances.    Having  crossed  the  river  and 

[43] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

being  ready  for  a  sprint,  each  made  a 
guess  of  the  distance  to  the  foot  of  the 
rock  ridge.  The  estimates  varied  from 
two  hundred  yards  to  three  hundred. 
Off  we  went,  counting  paces.  At  the 
end  of  three  hundred  we  appeared  to 
be  no  nearer  the  goal  than  when  we 
started.  The  guesses  were  repeated, 
and  when  we  were  about  completing 
the  second  course  of  stepping,  making 
nearly  six  hundred  yards  in  all,  one'  of 
the  boys  espied  a  mountain  sheep  on 
the  top  of  the  ridge,  keeping  lookout, 
probably,  for  the  benefit  of  his  fellows, 
feeding  on  the  other  side,  as  is  the 
habit  of  these  wary  creatures. 

With  head  and  great  horns  clearly 
outlined  on  the  background  of  blue 
sky,  he  was  a  tempting  target.  With- 
out a  word,  the  three  of  us  leveled 
guns  and  fired.  Mr.  Mountain  Sheep 
stood  perfectly  still,  looking  down  at 
us.  We  could  not  see  so  much  as  the 
winking  of  an  eye.  Making  ready  for 
another  volley,  we  though  best  to  get 

[44] 


A  Tempting  Target 

nearer;  but  as  we  started  the  head 
and  horns  and  sheep  disappeared  be- 
hind the  top  of  the  ridge.  Further 
stepping  proved  that  we  had  shot  at 
the  animal  from  a  distance  of  at  least 
half  a  mile.  Our  guns  were  good  for 
a  range  of  two  hundred  yards,  at  most. 
Much  of  the  time,  especially  while 
in  the  higher  mountains,  we  were  in 
possession  of  little  knowldege  of  our 
position.  There  were  no  marks  that 
we  observed  to  indicate  geographical 
divisions,  and  we  had  no  means  for 
determining  many  exact  locations, 
though  some  important  rivers  and 
prominent  mountain  peaks  and  ridges 
were  identified.  We  knew  little,  if 
anything,  then  of  territorial  bounda- 
ries, and  thought  of  the  country  tra- 
versed as  being  so  remote  from  cen- 
ters of  civilization — at  that  time  but 
little  explored,  even — that  we  could 
not  conceive  any  object  in  attempting 
to  determine  our  location  with  refer- 
ence to  geographical  lines;  nor  could 

[45] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

we  have  done  so  except  on  rare  occa- 
sions. Our  chief  concern  was  to  know 
that  we  were  on  the  best  route  to 
California. 

We  crossed  the  summit  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains  by  the  South  Pass.  Though 
it  was  July,  the  jagged  peaks  of  the 
Wind  River  Mountains  bore  a  thick 
blanket  of  snow.  Sometime  after  leav- 
ing the  "Devil's  Gate"  we  passed 
Pacific  Springs.  There  we  gained  first 
knowledge  that  we  had  passed  the 
summit,  on  observing  that  the  streams 
flowed  westerly.  Patient  plodding  had 
now  taken  us  a  distance  of  actual 
travel  amounting  to  much  more  than 
one  thousand  miles  and,  from  time  to 
time,  into  very  high  altitudes.  About 
four  miles  west  of  Pacific  Springs  we 
passed  the  junction  of  the  California 
and  Oregon  trails,  at  the  Big  Bend  of 
the  Bear  River. 

Green  River,  where  we  first  came 
to  it,  was  in  a  level  bit  of  country. 
There   this    stream    was   about    sixty 

[46] 


The  Log  Raft 

yards  wide;  the  water  clear  and  deep, 
flowing  in  a  gentle  current.  For  the 
accommodation  of  emigrants,  three 
men  were  there,  operating  a  ferry. 
Whence  they  came  I  do  not  remember, 
if  they  told  us.  We  saw  no  signs  of  a 
habitation  in  which  they  might  have 
lived.  The  ferrying  was  done  with 
what  was  really  a  raft  of  logs,  rather 
than  a  boat.  It  was  sustained  against 
the  current  by  means  of  a  tackle  at- 
tached to  a  block,  rove  on  a  large  rope 
that  was  drawn  taut,  from  bank  to 
bank,  and  was  propelled  by  a  wind- 
lass on  each  bank.  When  a  wagon  had 
been  taken  aboard  this  cable  ferry,  the 
windlass  on  the  farther  side  was 
turned  by  one  of  the  men,  drawing  the 
raft  across.  After  unloading,  the  raft 
was  drawn  back,  by  operation  of  the 
windlass  on  the  opposite  shore,  where 
it  took  on  another  load.  The  third 
man  acted  as  conductor,  collecting  a 
toll  of  three  dollars  per  wagon.  All 
the    horses,    mules    and    cattle    were 

[47] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

driven  into  the  river,  and  swam  across. 
The  company  passed  along  the  shore 
of  the  Green  River,  down  the  Big 
Sandy  River  and  Slate  Creek,  over 
Bear  River  Divide,  then  southwest- 
ward  into  Utah  Territory. 


[*] 


CHAPTER   IV. 

DISQUIETING  RUMORS  OF  REDMEN.    CON- 
SOLIDATION   FOR    SAFETY.      THE 
POISONOUS   HUMBOLDT. 

Soon  after  passing  the  summit  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains  there  were  ru- 
mors of  a  hostile  attitude  toward  emi- 
grants on  the  part  of  certain  Indian 
tribes  farther  west.  For  a  time  such 
information  seemed  vague  as  to  origin 
and  reliability,  but  in  time  the  rumors 
became  persistent,  and  there  developed 
a  feeling  of  much  concern,  first  for 
the  safety  of  our  stock,  later  for  our 
own  protection. 

Measures  of  precaution  were  dis- 
cussed. Men  of  our  train  visited  those 
of  others,  ahead  and  behind  us,  and 
exchanged  views  regarding  the  prob- 
ability of  danger  and  the  best  means 
for  protection  and  defense.     We  were 

[49] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

forced  to  the  conclusion  that  the  situa- 
tion was  grave;  and  the  interests  of 
the  several  trains  were  mutual.  As 
the  members  of  the  different  parties, 
most  of  whom  previously  had  been 
strangers  to  one  another,  met  and 
talked  of  the  peril  which  all  believed 
to  be  imminent,  they  became  as  broth- 
ers; and  mutual  protection  was  the 
theme  that  came  up  often  est  and  was 
listened  to  with  the  most  absorbing 
interest. 

By  the  time  we  had  crossed  the 
Green  River  these  consultations  had 
matured  into  a  plan  for  consolidation 
of  trains,  for  greater  concentration  of 
strength.  A.  J.  Drennan's  company 
of  four  or  five  wagons,  immediately 
ahead  of  us,  and  the  Dr.  Kidd  train, 
of  three  wagons,  next  behind  us,  closed 
up  the  space  between,  and  all  three 
traveled  as  one  train.  Thus  combined, 
a  considerable  number  of  able-bodied 
men  were  brought  together,  making  a 
rather  formidable  array  for  an  ordi- 

[50] 


Serio-Comic 

nary  band  of  Indians  to  attack.  Every 
man  primed  his  gun  and  thenceforth 
took  care  to  see  that  his  powder  was 
dry. 

Still  the  youthful  element  occasion- 
ally managed  to  extract  some  humor 
out  of  the  very  circumstances  which 
the  older  and  more  serious  members 
held  to  be  grounds  for  forebodings  of 
evil.  One  morning  after  we  had  left 
camp,  a  favorite  cow  was  missing 
from  the  drove.  "Jack"  Aston  and 
Major  Crewdson,  both  young  fellows, 
rode  back  in  search  of  the  stray.  From 
a  little  hill-top  they  saw,  in  a  ravine 
below,  some  half  dozen  Indians  busily 
engaged  in  skinning  the  cow.  "Jack" 
and  the  Major  returned  and  merely 
reported  what  they  had  seen.  They 
were  asked  why  they  had  not  de- 
manded of  those  "rascally"  Indians 
that  they  explain  why  they  were  skin- 
ning a  cow  that  did  not  belong  to 
them.  "Jack"  promptly  answered 
that,  as  for  himself,  he  had  never  been 

[51] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

introduced  to  this  particular  party  of 
Indians,  and  was  not  on  speaking 
terms  with  them;  furthermore,  neither 
he  nor  the  Major  had  sufficient  knowl- 
edge of  the  Indian  language  properly 
to  discuss  the  matter  with  them. 

The  route  pursued  led  to  the  north 
of  Great  Salt  Lake,  thence  northwest- 
erly. Our  line  of  travel  did  not  there- 
fore bring  us  within  view  of  the  Mor- 
mon settlements  which  had  already 
been  established  at  the  southerly  end 
of  the  great  inland  sea. 

We  camped  one  night  approximately 
where  the  city  of  Ogden  now  stands, 
then  a  desolate  expanse  of  sand-dunes. 
A  group  of  our  men  sat  around  the 
camp-fire  that  evening,  discussing  the 
probability  of  a  railroad  ever  being 
constructed  over  the  route  we  were 
traveling.  All  of  them  were  natives 
or  recent  residents  of  the  Middle  West, 
and  it  is  probable  that  not  one  had 
ever  seen  a  railroad.  The  unanimous 
opinion  was  that  such  a  project  as  the 

[52] 


Railroad  Here?    Never! 

building  of  a  railroad  through  terri- 
tory like  that  over  which  we  had  thus 
far  traveled  would  be  a  task  so  stu- 
pendous as  to  baffle  all  human  ingenu- 
ity and  skill.  Yet,  some  twelve  years 
later,  the  ceremony  of  driving  the 
famous  "last  spike/'  completing  the 
railroad  connection  between  the  At- 
lantic and  Pacific,  was  performed  on  a 
sand  flat  very  near  the  spot  where  we 
camped  that  night.  The  intervening 
period  saw  the  establishment  of  the 
"pony  express,"  which  greatly  facili- 
tated the  mail  service  (incidentally  re- 
ducing letter  postage  to  Pacific  Coast 
points  from  twenty-five  to  ten  cents). 
That  service  continued  from  the  early 
sixties  until  through  railroad  connec- 
tion was  made. 

After  the  consolidation  of  trains  as 
described,  our  next  neighbor  to  the 
rear  was  Smith  Holloway,  whose  "out- 
fit" consisted  of  three  wagons,  with  a 
complement  of  yokewise  oxen  and  some 
horses  and  mules;  also  a  large  drove 

[53  1 


Crossing  the  Plains 

of  stock  cattle,  intended  for  the  mar- 
ket in  California,  where  it  was  known 
they  would  be  salable  at  high  prices. 
He  had  with  him  his  wife,  a  little 
daughter,  and  Jerry  Bush,  Mrs.  Hol- 
loway's  brother,  a  young  man  of 
twenty-one  years;  also  two  hired  men, 
Joe  Blevens  and  Bird  Lawles.  Hollo- 
way  kept  his  party  some  distance  be- 
hind us,  he  having  declined  to  join  the 
consolidation  of  trains  in  order  to 
avoid  the  inconvenience  that  the  min- 
gling of  his  stock  with  ours  would 
entail,  with  reference  to  pasture,  and 
camping  facilities. 

A  mile  or  two  behind  Holloway  were 
the  trains  of  Captain  Rountree,  the 
Giles  company,  Simpson  Fennell,  Mr. 
Russell,  and  others,  equipped  with  sev- 
eral wagons  each,  and  accompanied  by 
some  loose  stock. 

All  these  were  traveling  along,  a 
sort  of  moving  neighborhood;  inci- 
dentally getting  acquainted  with  one 
another,  visiting  on  the  road  by  day 

[54] 


Plans  for  Defence 

and  in  the  camp  at  evening  time ;  talk- 
ing of  the  journey,  of  the  country  for 
which  we  were  en  route,  and  our  hopes 
of  prosperity  and  happiness  in  the  new 
El  Dorado — but  most  of  all,  just  then, 
of  the  probable  danger  of  attack  by 
savage  tribes. 

More  than  ever  rumors  of  impend- 
ing trouble  were  flying  from  train  to 
train.  Some  of  these  were  to  the  effect 
that  white  bandits  were  in  league  with 
Indians  in  robbing  and  murdering 
emigrants.  The  well-known  treachery 
of  the  savages,  and  the  stories  we 
heard  of  emigrants  having  been 
slaughtered  also  by  whites — the  real 
facts  of  which  we  knew  little  of — were 
quite  enough  to  beget  fear  and  suggest 
the  need  of  plans  for  the  best  pos- 
sible resistance. 

Up  to  this  time  there  was  frequent 
communication  between  trains,  a  con- 
siderable distance  ahead  and  behind. 
As  at  home,  neighbor  would  visit 
neighbor,  and  discuss  the  topics  of  the 

[55] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

day;  so,  from  time  to  time  we  met 
persons  in  other  trains  who  gave  out 
information  obtained  before  leaving 
home,  or  from  mountaineers,  trappers 
or  explorers,  occasionally  met  while 
we  were  yet  on  the  eastern  slope  of 
the  Rockies;  men  who  were  familiar 
with  Indian  dialects  and  at  peace  with 
the  tribes,  enabling  them  to  learn 
much  that  was  of  importance  to  the 
emigrants. 

Dissemination  of  news  among  the 
people  of  the  various  trains  near  us 
was  accomplished  not  only  during 
visits  by  members  of  one  train  to  those 
of  another,  but  sometimes  by  other 
methods.  One  of  these,  which  was 
frequently  employed  in  communicat- 
ing generally  or  in  signaling  individ- 
uals known  to  be  somewhere  in  the 
line  behind  us,  was  by  a  system  of 
"bone-writing." 

There  were  along  the  line  of  travel 
many  bare,  bleached  bones  of  animals 
that  had  died  in  previous  years,  many 

[56] 


Messages  in  Unique  Form 

of  them  doubtless  the  animals  of  ear- 
lier emigrants.  Some  of  these,  as  for 
example,  the  frontal  or  the  jaw-bone, 


Bone-writing 

whitened  by  the  elements,  and  having 
some  plain,  smooth  surface,  were  excel- 
lent tablets  for  pencil  writing.  An 
emigrant  desiring  to  communicate  with 
another,   or  with  a  company,  to  the 

[57] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

rear,  would  write  the  message  on  one  of 
these  bones  and  place  the  relic  on  a 
heap  of  stones  by  the  roadside,  or 
suspend  it  in  the  branches  of  a  sage 
bush,  so  conspicuously  displayed  that 
all  coming  after  would  see  it  and  read. 
Those  for  general  information,  in- 
tended for  all  comers,  were  allowed 
to  remain ;  others,  after  being  read  by 
the  person  addressed,  were  usually  re- 
moved. Sometimes  when  passing  such 
messages,  placed  by  those  ahead  of  us, 
we  added  postscripts  to  the  bulletins, 
giving  names  and  dates,  for  the  edifi- 
cation of  whomever  might  care  to  read 
them.  It  was  in  this  way  that  some 
of  the  developments  regarding  the 
Indian  situation  were  made  known  by 
one  train  to  another. 

Thus  we  progressed,  counting  off 
the  average  of  about  eighteen  miles  a 
day  from  the  long  part  of  the  journey 
that  still  lay  before  us,  when  we 
reached  Thousand  Springs,  adjacent  to 
the    present    boundary    line   between 

[58] 


A  Dreaded  Locality 

Utah  and  Nevada.  This,  we  were  told, 
was  the  source  of  the  Humboldt  River. 
We  were  told,  too,  that  the  four  hun- 
dred miles  down  the  course  of  that 
peculiar  stream — which  we  could  not 
hope  to  traverse  in  much  less  than  one 
month — we  would  find  to  be  the  most 
desert-like  portion  of  the  entire  trip, 
the  most  disagreeable  and  arduous,  for 
man  and  beast.  Such  was  to  be  ex- 
pected by  reason  of  the  character  of 
that  region  and  the  greater  danger 
there  of  Indian  depredations;  also  be- 
cause the  passage  through  that  section 
was  to  be  undertaken  after  our  teams 
had  become  greatly  worn,  therefore 
more  likely  to  fail  under  hard  condi- 
tions. Furthermore,  scarcity  of  feed 
for  the  stock  was  predicted,  and,  along 
much  of  the  way,  uncertainty  as  to 
water  supply,  other  than  that  from 
the  Humboldt  River,  which  was,  espe- 
cially at  that  time  of  the  year,  so 
strongly  impregnated  with  alkali  as 
to  be  dangerous  to  life. 

[59] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

Nearly  all  the  face  of  the  country 
was  covered  with  alkali  dust,  which, 
in  a  light,  pulverulent  state,  rose  and 
filled  the  air  at  the  slightest  breeze  or 
other  disturbance.  It  was  impossible 
to  avoid  inhaling  this  powder  to  some 
extent,  and  it  created  intense  thirst, 
tending  toward  exhaustion  and  great 
suffering.  We  knew  that  sometimes 
delirium  was  induced  by  this  cause, 
and  even  death  resulted  from  it  in 
cases  of  very  long  exposure  under  the 
worst  conditions. 

Sometimes  for  miles  the  only  vege- 
table growth  we  found  along  the  river 
was  a  string  of  willow  bushes,  fring- 
ing its  course,  and  scattered,  stunted 
sagebrush,  growing  feebly  in  gravel 
and  dry  sand,  the  leaves  of  which  were 
partly  withered  and  of  a  pale,  ashy 
tint.  Feed  for  the  animals  was  very 
scarce.  It  was  not  possible,  over  much 
of  the  way,  to  get  sufficient  fresh 
water  for  the  stock,  therefore  difficult 
to   restrain  them   from  drinking  the 

[60] 


Desolation 

river  water.  Some  did  drink  from 
that  stream,  despite  all  efforts  to  pre- 
vent it,  the  result  being  that  many  of 
them  died  while  we  made  our  way 
along  the  sluggish  Humboldt. 


[61] 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   HOLLOW  AY  MASSACRE. 

It  was  decided  that  while  in  this 
region  we  would,  whenever  possible, 
make  our  camp  some  distance  from  the 
river,  in  order  that  the  stock  might  be 
prevented  from  drinking  the  danger- 
ous river  water,  also  for  the  reason 
that  the  clumps  of  willows  by  the 
stream  could  be  used  as  a  cover  by 
Indians  bent  on  mischief:  and  they, 
we  now  believed,  were  watching  for  a 
favorable  opportunity  to  surprise  us. 

It  transpired  that  the  Holloway 
party  neglected  this  precaution,  at 
least  on  one  occasion,  sometime  after 
passing  the  head  of  the  Humboldt 
River.  Their  train  was  next  behind 
ours  when,  on  the  evening  of  August 
13th,  after  rounding  up  their  stock  for 
the  night,  a  short  distance  from  the 

[62] 


A  Fatal  Morning 

wagons,  they  stopped  near  the  willows 
by  the  river  and  made  what  proved  to 
be  their  last  camp. 

Behind  them,  but  not  within  sight, 
were  several  emigrant  camps  at  points 
varying  from  a  few  rods  to  half  a  mile 
apart. 

The  Holloway  party  retired  as  usual 
for  the  night;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Holloway 
and  their  child,  a  girl  of  two  years,  in 
a  small  tent  near  the  wagons;  Jerry 
Bush,  Mrs.  Holloway' s  brother,  and 
one  of  the  hired  men,  Joe  Blevens,  in 
their  blankets  on  the  ground;  while 
Bird  Lawles,  the  other  hired  man,  be- 
ing ill  with  a  fever,  slept  in  a  wagon. 

There  were  others  with  this  party 
that  night;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Callum,  Mr. 
Hattlebaugh,  and  a  man  whose  name 
is  now  unknown.  These  four  had  been 
traveling  near  the  Holloway  party, 
and  joined  it  for  camping  on  that 
occasion. 

The  following  morning  Mr.  Hollo- 
way  was   the   first  to   arise.     While 

[63] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

making  the  camp-fire,  he  called  to  the 
others  to  get  up,  saying  cheerfully: 

"Well,  we've  got  through  one  more 
night  without  a  call  from  the  Red- 
skins." 

"Bang,  bang,"  rang  out  a  volley  of 
rifle  shots,  fired  from  the  willows 
along  the  river,  less  than  a  hundred 
yards  away. 

Mr.  Holloway  fell,  fatally  shot,  and 
died  without  a  word  or  a  struggle. 
As  other  members  of  the  emigrant 
party  sprang  to  their  feet  and  came 
within  view  of  the  assailants,  the  fir- 
ing continued,  killing  Joe  Blevens, 
Mrs.  Galium,  and  the  man  whose  name 
is  not  recalled;  while  Bird  Lawles, 
being  discovered  on  his  sick  bed  in  a 
wagon,  was  instantly  put  to  death. 

Meanwhile  Jerry  Bush  grasped  his 
rifle  and  joined  battle  against  the  as- 
sassins. Thus  far  the  savages  re- 
mained hidden  in  the  bushes,  and 
Jerry's  shots  were  fired  merely  at 
places  where  he  saw  the  tall  weeds  and 

[6*1 


Almost  Despairing 

willows  shaken  by  the  motions  of  the 
Indians,  therefore  he  has  never  known 
whether  his  bullets  struck  one  of  the 
enemy. 

While  thus  fighting  alone,  for  his 
life  and  that  of  his  people,  he  received 
a  gunshot  in  his  side  and  fell.  Know- 
ing that  he  was  unable  to  continue  the 
fight,  and,  though  doubting  that  he 
could  rise,  he  endeavored  to  shield  him- 
self from  the  bullets  and  arrows  of  the 
Indian  band.  He  succeeded  in  drag- 
ging himself  to  the  river  bank,  when, 
seizing  a  willow  branch,  he  lowered 
himself  to  the  foot  of  the  steep  cliff, 
some  ten  feet,  reaching  the  water's 
edge.  He  then  attempted  to  swim  to 
the  opposite  shore.  The  effort  caused 
him  to  lose  his  gun,  in  deep  water. 
Owing  to  weakness  due  to  his  wound, 
he  was  unable  to  cross  the  stream. 

Jerry  Bush's  parting  view  of  the 
camp  had  revealed  the  apparent  de- 
struction of  his  entire  party,  except 
himself.     Observing   the   body   of   at 

[65] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

least  one  woman,  among  the  victims 
on  the  ground,  he  believed  that  his 
sister  also  had  been  slain. 

But  Mrs.  Holloway  and  the  little 
girl  were  still  in  the  tent,  for  the 
time  unhurt,  and  just  awakened  from 
their  morning  slumber.  Having  real- 
ized that  the  camp  was  being  attacked, 
Mrs.  Holloway  emerged  from  the  tent 
to  find  no  living  member  of  her  party 
in  sight,  other  than  herself  and  her 
child.  For  a  moment  she  was  par- 
tially shielded  by  the  wagons.  The 
first  object  that  drew  her  attention 
was  her  husband's  form,  lying  still  in 
death,  near  the  fire  he  had  just  kin- 
dled. Next  beyond  was  the  dead  body 
of  Blevens,  and  a  little  farther  away 
were  the  remains  of  the  others  who 
had  been  slain.  Her  brother  she  did 
not  see,  but  supposed  he  had  met  the 
same  fate  as  the  others  whom  she  saw 
on  the  ground.  Jerry  was  an  experi- 
enced hunter ;  she  knew  that  he  always 
owned  a  fine  gun,  and  had  full  confi- 

[66] 


Torture 

dence  that,  if  he  were  alive  and  not 
disabled,  he  would  defend  his  people 
to  the  last. 

She  saw  some  of  the  Indians  coming 
from  their  ambush  by  the  river.  They 
approached  for  a  time  with  caution, 
looking  furtively  about,  as  if  to  be 
sure  there  was  no  man  left  to  defend 
the  camp.  As  they  drew  nearer  Mrs. 
Holloway  realized  that  she  and  her 
child  were  facing  an  awful  fate — 
death  or  captivity.  On  came  the  sav- 
ages, now  more  boldly,  and  in  greater 
numbers. 

The  terrified  woman,  clothed  only  in 
her  night  robe,  barefooted;  not  know- 
ing whether  to  take  flight  or  stand  and 
plead  for  mercy;  with  the  child  on  one 
arm,  one  hand  raised  in  supplication, 
yielded  finally  to  the  impulse  to  flee. 
As  she  started  the  attacking  band  re- 
sumed firing;  she  was  struck,  by 
arrows  and  at  least  one  bullet,  and 
dropped  headlong  to  the  ground. 

Though  conscious,  she  remained  mo- 

[67] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

tionless,  in  the  hope  that,  by  feigning 
death  she  might  escape  further  wounds 
and  torture.  But  the  Indians  came, 
and  taking  the  arrows  from  her  body, 
punctured  her  flesh  with  the  jagged 
instruments,  as  a  test  whether  physi- 
cal sensation  would  disclose  a  sign  of 
life  remaining.  She  lay  with  eyes 
closed;  not  a  muscle  twitched  nor  a 
finger  moved,  while  those  demons  pro- 
ceeded, in  no  delicate  maner,  to  cut 
the  skin  around  the  head  at  the  edge 
of  the  hair,  then  tear  the  scalp  from 
the  skull,  leaving  the  bare  and  bleed- 
ing head  on  the  ground. 

Horrible  as  all  this  was,  it  did  not 
prove  to  be  the  last  nor  the  most  revolt- 
ing exhibition  of  wanton  lust  for 
blood. 

The  little  girl,  who  it  is  hoped  had 
been  rendered  insensible  at  sight  of 
the  cruelties  perpetrated  upon  her 
mother,  was  taken  by  the  feet  and  her 
brains  dashed  out  on  the  wheels  of  a 
wagon.    To  this  last  act  in  the  fiend- 

[68] 


One  Spark  of  Life 

ish  drama  there  was  probably  no  wit- 
ness other  than  the  actors  in  it;  but 
the  child's  body,  mangled  too  terribly 
for  description,  and  the  bloody  marks 
on  the  wagon,  gave  evidence  so  con- 
vincing that  there  could  not  be  a  mo- 
ment's doubt  of  what  had  occurred. 

The  marauders  now  began  a  general 
looting  of  the  wagons.  Some  of  their 
number  were  rounding  up  the  stock, 
preparing  to  drive  the  cattle  away, 
when  the  trains  of  emigrants  next  in 
the  rear  appeared,  less  than  half  a 
mile  distant.  This  caused  the  Indian 
band  to  retreat.  They  crossed  the 
river,  and  then  placing  themselves  be- 
hind the  willows,  hurried  away,  mak- 
ing their  escape  into  the  mountain 
fastnesses.  Owing  to  their  precipitous 
departure,  much  of  the  plunder  they 
were  preparing  to  take  was  left  be- 
hind them.  Among  the  articles  thus 
dropped  by  them  was  the  scalp  of  Mrs. 
Holloway,  and  the  rescuing  party 
found  and  took  possession  of  it. 

[691 


Crossing  the  Plains 

Those  emigrants  who  first  came 
upon  the  scene  found  Mrs.  Holloway 
apparently  dead;  but,  on  taking  her 
up,  they  saw  that  she  was  alive. 
Though  returning  to  semi-conscious- 
ness some  time  later,  her  condition 
was  such  that  she  was  unable  to  tell 
the  story  then;  but  there  were  evi- 
dences showing  plainer  than  words 
could  have  told  of  the  awful  events  of 
that  morning,  which  had  converted  the 
quiet  camp  of  this  happy,  hopeful  com- 
pany into  a  scene  of  death  and 
destruction. 

Before  noon  a  large  number  of  peo- 
ple of  the  great  emigrant  procession 
had  arrived.  They  united  in  giving  to 
the  dead  the  best  interment  that  the 
circumstances  permitted.  Then  the 
broken  and  scattered  effects  of  the 
Holloway  company  were  gathered  up, 
and  the  now  mournful  trains  took 
position  in  the  line  of  pilgrimage  and 
again  moved  forward  towards  the 
Pacific. 

[70] 


Good  Samaritans 

Mr.  Fennell,  aided  by  Captain  Roun- 
tree's  company  and  others,  attempted 
to  save  such  of  the  Holloway  property 
as  had  not  been  carried  off  or  de- 
stroyed. They  were  successful  in  re- 
covering about  one  hundred  of  the 
one  hundred  and  fifty  head  of  stock 
which  the  Indians  had  endeavored  to 
drive  away.  Two  mules  that  were  be- 
ing led  off  by  ropes  broke  away  from 
the  savage  band  and  returned,  but  the 
emigrants  did  not  recover  any  of  the 
stolen  horses. 

Jerry  Bush  found  his  way  back 
to  the  scene.  His  injury,  though  ap- 
parently of  a  dangerous  character,  did 
not  delay  the  relief  parties  more  than 
a  day  after  the  attack,  and  the  wound 
healed  within  a  few  weeks.  It  was 
reported  that  Callum  and  Hattlebaugh 
had  escaped,  but  their  further  where- 
abouts was  not  known. 

Captain  Rountree  took  charge  of 
Mrs.  Holloway  and  her  brother  and 
brought  them,  with  such  of  their  stock 

[71] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

and  other  belongings  as  remained,  to 
The  Meadows,  on  the  Feather  River. 
After  partially  recuperating  there,  an 
uncle,  Mr.  Perry  Durban,  came  to 
their  aid,  and  they  were  taken  to 
Suisun.  After  full  recovery  from  his 
wound,  Jerry  Bush  located  in  Ukiah, 
and  resided  there  some  years.  He  still 
survives,  now  a  resident  of  Hulett, 
Wyoming,  at  the  ripe  age  of  eighty 
years. 

The  slaughter  of  the  Holloway 
party  occurred  at  a  point  on  the  Hum- 
boldt River  some  thirty  miles  east  of 
where  Winnemucca  is  located,  a  few 
miles  west  of  Battle  Mountain.  This 
becomes  apparent  by  careful  estimates 
of  distance  traveled  per  day,  rather 
than  by  landmarks  noted  at  the  time, 
there  being  no  settlements  there,  nor 
elsewhere  along  the  route,  at  that  time. 

It  was  perhaps  a  year  later  when  I 
went  to  a  camp-meeting  one  Sunday,  at 
Mark  West  Creek,  in  Sonoma  County, 
California.     The   people   attending   a 

[72] 


Jerry  Bush,  1914 


After  Effects 

service  were  in  a  small  opening  among 
trees.  Standing  back  of  those  who 
were  seated,  I  saw  among  them  a 
woman  whose  profile  seemed  familiar, 
and  later  I  recognized  her  as  Mrs. 
Holloway. 

My  interest  in  her  career,  due  to 
her  extraordinary  part  in  the  Indian 
massacre  on  the  plains,  was  height- 
ened by  the  fact  that  I  had  known  her 
previously,  as  the  daughter  of  Mr. 
Bush,  a  prosperous  farmer,  and  had 
been  present  when  she  married  Mr. 
Holloway,  in  a  little  schoolhouse,  near 
Rockport,  Atchison  County,  Missouri. 
It  seemed  a  natural  impulse  which 
prompted  me  to  ask  her  for  partic- 
ulars of  the  tragedy,  so  disastrous  to 
herself  and  her  family;  though  later 
there  were  misgivings  regarding  the 
propriety  of  doing  so. 

Mrs.  Holloway  appeared  at  that 
time  to  be  in  good  health,  and  was 
cheerful,  possessing  perfect  control  of 
her  faculties.     Her  head  was  covered 

[73] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

by  a  wig,  made  of  her  own  hair,  taken 
from  the  scalp  that  was  recovered  at 
the  scene  of  the  massacre. 

All  the  heartrending  experiences 
that  she  had  endured  were  imprinted 
upon  her  mind  in  minutest  detail,  and 
she  related  them  in  the  exact  order  of 
their  occurrence.  The  recalling  of  the 
terrible  ordeal,  however,  so  wrought 
upon  her  emotions  that  she  wept,  to 
the  limit  of  mild  hysteria,  which 
brought  our  conversation  to  a  close, 
and  soon  thereafter  she  left  the  place. 

I  saw  her  no  more;  but  learned 
sometime  afterwards  that  her  health 
failed,  then  of  the  giving  away  of  her 
mental  powers,  and  still  later  of  her 
death,  at  Napa  City;  caused  primarily 
by  shock,  and  brooding  over  the  mis- 
fortunes she  had  met  on  the  bank  of 
the  Humboldt  River. 

It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  a  wo- 
man, any  woman— or  any  man — could, 
in  a  state  of  consciousnes,  endure  such 
torture    as   was   inflicted   upon    Mrs. 

[74] 


Mrs.  Nancy  Holloway,  1857 


Fortitude 

Holloway,  and  refrain  from  disclosing 
to  her  tormentors  that  she  was  alive. 
But  that  she  did  so  endure  was  her  posi- 
tive statement,  and  this  was  indisput- 
ably corroborated  by  evidences  found  by 
those  who  arrived  at  the  scene  less 
than  an  hour  after  the  event. 

Through  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Holloway,  of  Fairfax,  Missouri, 
there  is  presented  here  a  picture  of 
Mrs.  Nancy  Holloway,  wife  of  Smith 
Holloway.  The  photograph  was  taken 
in  California,  shortly  after  the  attack 
described. 


[75] 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ORIGIN  OF   "PIKER."      BEFORE  THE  ERi* 
OF  CANNED  GOODS  AND  KODAKS.     MORN- 
ING   ROUTINE.       TYPICAL    BIVOUAC. 
SOCIABILITY   ENTRAINED.      THE 
FLOODED  CAMP.      HOPE  SUS- 
TAINS PATIENCE. 

The  appellation  "Piker,"  much  used 
in  the  West  in  early  days,  synony- 
mous of  "Missourian,"  had  its  origin 
on  these  plains.  At  first  it  was  ap- 
plied to  a  particular  type  of  Missou- 
rian, but  later  came  to  be  used 
generally. 

There  was  among  the  emigrants  a 
considerable  number  of  persons  from 
Pike  County,  Missouri.  Some  of  these 
had  the  sign,  "From  Pike  Co.,  Mo.," 
painted  on  their  wagon  covers. 
Others,  when  asked  whence  they  came, 
promptly      answered,      "From      Pike 

[76] 


"Pike  County,  by  Gosh" 

County,  Missouri,  by  gosh,  sir;"  often 
said  with  a  shrug  implying  that  the 
speaker  arrogated  to  himself  much 
superiority  by  reason  of  the  fact 
stated.  The  display  of  such  signs,  and 
announcements  like  that  just  men- 
tioned, were  of  such  frequent  occur- 
rence that  the  substance  was  soon  ab- 
breviated to  "Piker,"  and  became  a 
by-word.  It  was  often,  perhaps  al- 
ways, spoken  with  a  tinge  of  odium. 
Possibly  this  was  due  to  the  fact  that 
many  of  the  people  referred  to  were 
of  a  "backwoods"  class,  rather  short 
in  culture,  and  in  personal  makeup, 
manner  and  language,  bearing  a  gen- 
eral air  of  the  extremely  rural. 

Though  only  persons  of  that  descrip- 
tion hailing  from  Pike  County  were 
those  who  at  first  had  to  bear  the 
opprobrium  generally  implied  by 
"Piker,"  later  it  was  applied  to  all 
persons  of  that  type  in  the  Far  West, 
regardless  of  their  origin.  Many 
years'  of  mingling  of  California's  cos- 

[77] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

mopolitan  population  has  changed  all 
that;  producing  her  present  homo- 
geneous, sterling,  virile,  and  somewhat 
distinct  type  of  "Californian" ;  so  the 
"Piker,"  as  such,  is  no  longer  in  the 
land.  A  later  application  of  the  same 
word,  descriptive  of  a  person  who  does 
business  in  a  small  way,  has  nothing 
in  common  with  the  "Piker"  of  early 
days. 

Fifty-eight  years  ago,  the  time  of 
the  events  here  narrated,  was  before 
the  era  of  canned  goods.  Nearly  all  of 
the  foodstuffs  carried  by  the  emigrants 
were  in  crude  form,  and  bulky;  but 
substantial,  pure,  and  such  as  would 
keep  in  any  climate. 

During  the  first  few  weeks  of  the 
trip  we  milked  some  of  the  cows,  and 
also  made  butter,  the  churning  opera- 
tion being  effected  mainly  by  the  mo- 
tion of  the  wagons,  in  the  regular 
course.  That  this  did  not  last  long 
was  due  to  reduction  of  milk  supply. 
After  a  time  there  was  not  sufficient 

[78] 


A  Kodak  Wanted 

even  for  use  in  the  coffee,  or  for  mak- 
ing gravy,  that  convenient  substitute 
for  butter. 

Such  delicacies  as  may  now  be  found 
in  first-class  canned  meats,  vegetables 
and  milk  would  have  filled  an  often- 
felt  want.  The  occasional  supply  that 
we  had  en  route  of  fresh  meat  and  fish 
were  obtained  largely  by  chance;  we 
having  no  knowledge  of  localities 
where  hunting  and  fishing  were  likely 
to  be  successful,  and  it  being  deemed 
unsafe  for  members  of  the  party  to 
wander  far  or  remain  long  away  from 
the  train.  It  seems  regrettable  that  the 
invention  of  hermetically-sealed  and 
easily  portable  foods,  and  the  induce- 
ment to  cross  the  plains  to  California, 
did  not  occur  in  reversed  sequence. 

Neither  had  the  kodak  arrived.  Had 
it  been  with  us  then,  this  narrative 
might  be  illustrated  with  snap-shots 
of  camp  scenes,  characteristic  roadside 
views,  and  incidents  of  travel  gener- 
ally, which  would  do  more  for  realism 

[79] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

than  can  any  word-picture.  We  often 
see  specimens  of  artists'  work  pur- 
porting to  represent  a  "  *49er"  emi- 
grant train  on  the  overland  journey — 
some  of  them  very  clever;  but  seldom 
are  they  at  all  realistic  to  the  man  who 
was  there. 

The  man  with  a  camera  could  have 
perpetuated,  for  example,  the  striking 
scene  presented  to  us  one  day  of  a 
party,  consisting  of  two  men  and  their 
wives,  with  two  or  three  children,  sit- 
ting on  a  rocky  hillside,  woefully  scan- 
ning their  team  of  done-out  oxen  and 
one  wagon  with  a  broken  axle;  no 
means  at  hand  for  recuperation  and 
repair.  In  the  scorching  sun  of  a  July 
day  they  waited,  utterly  helpless,  hope- 
less, forlorn,  confused;  and  a  thousand 
miles  from  "any  where.' '  Such  a 
grouping  would  not  have  made  a  cheer- 
ful picture,  but  would  have  assisted 
immensely  in  recording  a  historical 
fact. 

But  no  emigrant  ever  found  another 

[80] 


Travel  Routine 

in  distress  and  "passed  by  on  the  other 
side." 

We  were  early  risers,  and  the  camp 
was  each  morning  a  scene  of  life  with 
the  rising  of  the  sun.  By  sunset  all  were 
sufficiently  fatigued  to  wish  for  mak- 
ing camp  again.  Therefore,  from  the 
morning  start  till  the  evening  stop  was 
usually  about  twelve  hours,  with  varia- 
tions from  time  to  time,  according  to 
necessity  or  exceptional  conditions. 

Breaking  camp  in  the  morning  be- 
came routine,  and  proceeded  like  clock- 
work. Each  patient  ox  voluntarily 
drew  near,  and  stood,  waiting  to  be 
yoked  with  his  fellow  and  chained  to 
his  daily  task.  So  well  did  each  know 
his  place  by  the  side  of  his  mate  that 
the  driver  had  only  to  place  one  end  of 
the  yoke  on  the  neck  of  the  "off"  ox, 
known,  for  example,  as  "Bright,"  and 
hold  the  other  end  toward  the  "nigh" 
ox,  saying,  "Come  under  here,  Buck," 
and  the  obedient  fellow  placed  himself 
in    position.      Then    the    bows    were 

[81] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

placed  and  keyed,  and  "Bright"  and 
"Buck"  were  hitched  for  duty.  It  re- 
quired but  a  few  minutes  to  put  three 
or  four  yoke  of  oxen  in  working  order. 

As  the  result  of  much  repetition,  the 
packing  of  the  camp  articles  onto  the 
wagons  was  done  dexterously  and 
quickly.  Each  box,  roll  and  bundle 
had  a  designated  place;  all  being  ar- 
ranged usually  to  facilitate  sitting  or 
reclining  positions  for  those  who  rode 
in  the  "schooners,"  that  they  might  be 
as  comfortable  as  possible,  and  read, 
sleep,  or,  as  the  women  often  did,  sew 
and  knit,  or  play  games.  During  some 
parts  of  the  trip  such  means  of  whiling 
away  the  hours  was  very  desirable,  if 
not  a  necessity.  If  there  ever  was  a 
time  or  condition  in  which  it  could  be 
pardonable  to  "kill  time,"  these  cir- 
cumstances were  there,  during  many 
long  days. 

The  bivouac  was  always  a  scene  of 
bustle  and  orderly  disorder,  especially 
if  the  camp-site  was  a  good  one :  wood, 

[82] 


Healthy  Appetites 

water  and  grass  being  the  desiderata. 
Obedient  to  habit,  every  person  and 
animal  dropped  into  place  and  action. 
With  the  wagons  drawn  to  position  for 
the  night's  sojourn,  teams  were  quickly 
unhitched,  the  yokes,  chains,  harness 
and  saddles  falling  to  the  ground 
where  the  animals  stood. 

Relieved  of  their  trappings,  the  oxen, 
horses  and  mules  were  turned  to  pas- 
ture, plentiful  or  scant.  Cooking  uten- 
sils came  rattling  from  boxes;  rolls  of 
bedding  tumbled  out  and  were  spread 
on  the  smoothest  spots  of  sand  or 
grass.  Eager  hands  gathered  such 
fuel  as  was  available,  and  the  camp- 
fire  blazed.  Buckets  of  water  were 
brought  from  the  spring  or  stream; 
and  in  an  incredibly  short  time  the 
scene  of  animation  had  wrought  full 
preparation  for  the  night,  while  the 
odor  of  steaming  coffee  and  fry- 
ing bacon  rendered  the  astonished 
air  redolent  of  appetizing  cookery. 

Some  families  used  a  folding  table, 

[83] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

on  which  to  serve  meals;  but  more 
spread  an  oilcloth  on  the  ground  and 
gathered  around  that;  or  individuals, 
taking  a  plate  and  a  portion,  sat  on  a 
wagon-tongue  or  a  convenient  stone. 
Camp-stools  and  "split-bottomed" 
chairs  were  among  the  luxuries  that 
some  carried,  in  limited  numbers;  but 
these  were  not  useful  especially  as 
seats  while  partaking  of  a  meal  spread 
on  the  ground. 

Appetites  were  seldom  at  fault;  and 
the  meals,  though  plain  and  of  little 
variety,  were  never  slighted.  It  is 
hardly  necessary  to  add  that  bacon  and 
coffee  were  easy  staples.  Bread  was 
mainly  in  the  form  of  quick-fire  bis- 
cuits, baked  in  a  skillet  or  similar 
utensil,  or  the  ever-ready  and  always- 
welcome  "flap- jack,"  sometimes  supple- 
mented with  soda-crackers,  as  a 
delicacy. 

Nearly  all  the  nights  were  pleasant — 
mild  temperature,  and  very  little  dew. 
This  gave   much   relief,    the   daytime 

[84] 


Lasting  Friendships 

heat  being  generally  irksome  and 
often  distressingly  hot.  Many  of  the 
men  came  to  prefer  sleeping  wholly  in 
the  open,  with  the  heavens  unobscured ; 
often  requiring  no  more  than  a  pair  of 
blankets  and  a  small  pillow. 

Early  evening  was  devoted  to  social 
gatherings.  If  the  night  was  pleasant 
groups  would  assemble,  for  conversa- 
tion, singing  and  story- telling ;  varied 
with  dancing  by  the  young  people  of 
some  companies.  The  more  religious 
sang  hymns  and  read  the  Bible  some- 
times, in  lieu  of  attendance  at  any 
church  service.  When  wood  was  plen- 
tiful, a  bonfire  added  to  the  cheerful- 
ness and  comfort  of  the  occasion.  Often 
neighboring  trains  camped  quite  near, 
when  much  enjoyment  was  found  in 
visits  by  the  members  of  one  company 
among  those  of  another.  In  such  ways 
many  agreeable  acquaintances  were 
met  and  even  lasting  friendships 
formed,  some  of  which  have  endured 
throughout  the  nearly  three-score  years 
since  passed. 

[85] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

But  we  were  not  always  favored 
with  clear  and  pleasant  weather.  No 
one  who  was  there  can  have  forgotten 
one  night  at  the  Platte  River,  when  we 
had  a  most  dismal  experience.  Rain 
began  falling  in  the  afternoon,  and  for 
that  reason  we  made  camp  early. 

The  tents  were  set  up  on  a  bit  of 
flat  ground  near  the  river  bank.  There 
were  some  large  trees,  but  little  dry 
wood  available  for  fuel  for  the  camp 
fire  except  on  an  island,  which  was 
separated  from  us  by  a  branch  of  the 
river,  about  twenty  yards  wide  and  a 
foot  deep.  Some  of  us  waded  over, 
getting  our  clothes  soaked;  others 
crossed  on  horseback,  and  carried  back 
from  the  island  enough  wood  to  make 
a  fire.  But,  time  after  time,  the  fire 
was  quenched  by  the  rain,  which  now 
was  falling  in  torrents;  so  we  had 
much  difficulty  in  preparing  our 
supper. 

The  people  huddled  into  the  tents 
and  wagons,  half  hungry,  more  than 

[86] 


Deluged 

half  wet,  and  uncomfortable  alto- 
gether. With  the  exception  of  one  or 
two  cots,  the  bedding  was  spread  on  the 
ground  in  the  tents,  and  all  turned 
in — but  not  for  long.  Some  one  said, 
"water  is  running  under  my  bed." 
Then  another  and  another  made  the 
same  complaint.  Soon  we  learned  the 
deplorable  fact  that  the  large  tent  had 
been  pitched  in  a  basin-like  place,  and 
that  the  water,  as  the  rain  increased, 
was  coming  in  from  all  sides,  the  vol- 
ume growing  rapidly  greater. 

We  succeeded  then  in  lighting  one 
lantern,  when  the  water  was  found  to 
be  something  like  two  inches  deep  over 
nearly  all  parts  of  the  large  tent's 
floor.  The  beds  were  taken  up  and 
placed  in  soaked  heaps,  on  camp  stools 
and  boxes;  and  the  rain  continued 
pouring  in  steady,  relentless  disregard 
of  our  misery.  Except  where  lighted 
by  the  single  lantern  the  darkness  was, 
of  course,  absolute.  Relief  was  impos- 
sible.    There  appearing  to  be  nothing 

[87] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

else  to  do,  everybody  abandoned  the 
tents  and  huddled  in  the  wagons;  the 
lantern  was  blown  out,  and  there  was 
little  sleep,  while  we  waited  and  wished 
for  daylight. 

Some  of  the  days  were  warm  and 
some  hot.  Some  were  very  hot.  Dis- 
comforts were  common;  and  yet  not 
much  was  said,  and  apparently  little 
thought,  of  them.  Having  become 
inured  to  the  conditions  as  we  found 
them  from  time  to  time,  discomforts, 
such  as  under  other  circumstances 
would  have  been  considered  intolerable, 
were  passed  without  comment.  There 
were  times  and  situations  in  which 
hardships  were  unavoidable,  some  of 
them  almost  unendurable;  but  these, 
having  been  anticipated,  were  perhaps 
less  poignant  in  the  enduring  than  in 
the  expectation. 

Let  us  for  a  moment  raise  the  cur- 
tain of  more  than  half  a  century,  while 
we  look  back  on  one  of  those  ox-drawn 
trains  of  "prairie-schooners,"  as  it  ap- 

[88] 


Monotony 

peared  to  an  observer  on  the  ground 
at  the  time;  about  the  middle  of  Au- 
gust, and  beyond  the  middle  of  the 
journey.  Permit  the  imagination  to 
place  the  scene  alongside  that  of  the 
present-day  modes  of  traversing  the 
same  territory,  when  the  distance  is 
covered  in  a  less  number  of  days  than 
it  required  of  months  then.  Perhaps 
such  a  comparison  may  help  to  form 
some  faint  conception  of  what  the 
overland  pioneers  did,  and  what  they 
felt,  and  saw,  and  were. 

There  they  are  as  we  see  them,  on  a 
long  stretch  of  sage-brush  plateau. 
The  surface  of  the  plain  is  only  sand 
and  gravel,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach. 
The  atmosphere  is  hazy,  with  dust  and 
vibrating  waves  of  heat  arising  from 
the  ground.  Far  away  to  the  north- 
west is  the  outline  of  some  mountains, 
just  visible  in  the  dim  distance.  In 
the  opposite  direction,  whence  we  have 
come,  there  is  nothing  above  the 
ground  but  hot  space,  and  dust.    Not  a 

[89] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

living  thing  in  sight  but  ourselves  and 
ours. 

The  animals  appear  fatigued,  jaded. 
The  people  appear — well,  as  to  physi- 
cal condition,  like  the  animals:  gen- 
erally all  look  alike.  Yet  the  people 
seem  hopeful.  And  why  hopeful?  The 
inherent  and  indomitable  trait  of  the 
race  which  makes  it  possible  for  hu- 
manity to  look  over  and  past  present 
difficulties,  however  great,  and  see 
some  good  beyond.  That  is  why  the 
world  "do  move."  Often,  as  it  was 
with  us,  progress  may  be  slow,  but 
every  day  counts  for  a  little. 

Just  here  twelve  or  fifteen  miles  a 
day  is  doing  well — very  well.  From  a 
slight  eminence  at  one  side  of  the  way 
we  may  stand  and  see  the  slowly  creep- 
ing line  of  wagons  and  stock,  for  many 
miles  fore  and  aft,  as  they  bend  their 
way  in  and  out,  around  and  over  the 
surface  of  knolls  and  flats,  hillocks  and 
gullies.  From  a  distant  view  they 
seem  not  to  be  moving  at  all. 

[90] 


"Nooning" 

The  hour  of  mid-day  arrives,  and 
they  stop  for  the  "nooning."  There 
is  nothing  growing  in  the  vicinity  that 
the  horses  and  cattle  can  eat,  and  no 
water  except  the  little  in  the  keg  and 
canteens;  so  the  carrying  animals 
stand  in  their  yokes  and  harness,  or 
under  saddles,  and  the  loose  stock  wait 
in  groups,  their  thirst  unslaked. 

As  the  people  come  out  of  the  wag- 
ons and  go  about  the  business  of  the 
hour  we  see  the  marks  of  the  elements 
upon  them.  The  women  wear  "poke" 
bonnets  and  gingham  dresses.  The 
men  are  unshaven.  All  are  sunburnt 
to  a  rich,  leathern  brown.  Some  are 
thin,  and  at  this  particular  time,  wear- 
ing a  serious  expression.  They  are 
not  as  unhappy  as  they  look,  their 
principal  trouble  of  the  moment  being 
merely  anxiety  to  satisfy  prodigious 
and  healthy  appetites. 

There,  under  the  stress  of  the  mid- 
summer sun,  now  in  the  zenith,  no 
shade,   no  protection  from  the  flying 

[91] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

dust,  they  proceed  cheerfully  to  build  a 
fire,  of  sticks  and  dry  weeds;  they  fry 
bacon  and  bake  biscuits,  prepare  large 
pots  of  coffee,  and  they  eat,  from  tin 
plates,  and  drink  from  tin  cups. 

No  one  says,  "This  is  awful!"  They 
laugh  as  they  eat,  saying,  "Good;  ain't 
it?" 

This  is  not  a  cheerful  view  alto- 
gether of  the  retrospective;  but  a 
sketch  true  to  life,  as  life  was  there. 
It  was  not  all  like  that.  A  good  deal 
of  it  was. 

Some  will  say  that  these  overland 
travelers  were  over-zealous,  even  fool- 
hardy. One  of  the  earliest  pioneers, 
Mr.  Daniel  B.  Miller,  who  reached 
Oregon  by  the  plains  route  in  1852, 
wrote  later  to  relatives  in  Illinois,  "I 
would  not  bring  a  family  across  for 
all  that  is  contained  in  Oregon  and 
California."  Himself  single,  he  had 
come  with  a  train  composed  almost 
wholly  of  men,  but  learned  incidentally 
what   risks    there   were    in    escorting 

[92] 


Why  We  Came 

women  and  children  through  the  wilds. 
But  the  enduring  of  all  this  toil, 
exposure  and  hardship  had  for  its  in- 
spiration the  buoyant  hope  of  some- 
thing good  just  beyond,  something  that 
was  believed  to  be  worthy  of  the  pri- 
vation and  effort  it  was  costing.  The 
ardor  of  that  hope  was  too  intense  to 
be  discouraged  by  anything  that  hu- 
man strength  could  overcome.  The 
memories  of  those  strenuous  experi- 
ences are  held  as  all  but  sacred,  and 
you  never  meet  one  of  these  early  over- 
land emigrants  who  does  not  like  to 
sit  by  your  fireside  and  tell  you  about 
it.  He  forgets,  for  the  moment,  how 
hard  it  was,  and  dwells  upon  it,  telling 
it  over  and  over  again,  with  the  same 
pride  and  sense  of  noble  achievement 
that  the  old  soldier  feels  when  recount- 
ing the  battles  and  the  camp  life  and 
the  hard  marches  of  the  war,  when  he 
was  young,  away  back  in  the  sixties. 
One  crossing  this  country  by  present- 
day  conveyances,  in  richly  appointed 

[93] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

railroad  trains,  with  all  the  comforts 
obtainable  in  modern  sleeping,  dining 
and  parlor  cars,  can  hardly  be  expected 
to  conceive  what  it  was  to  cover  the 
same  course  under  the  conditions  de- 
scribed; when  there  was  not  even  a 
poor  wagon  road,  and  the  utmost  speed 
did  not  equal  in  a  day  the  distance 
traveled  in  half  an  hour  by  the  pres- 
ent mode.  Any  person  who  rides  in 
a  cumbrous  and  heavily  laden  wagon, 
behind  a  team  whose  pace  never  ex- 
ceeds a  slow  walk;  over  dusty  ground, 
in  hot  weather,  will,  before  one  day  is 
passed,  feel  that  endurance  requires 
utmost  fortitude.  Consider  what  pa- 
tience must  be  his  if  the  journey 
continues  for  four,  five  or  six  long 
months ! 

It  is  worthy  of  mention  that  there 
was  no  dissension  among  our  people, 
nor  even  unpleasantness,  during  the 
entire  trip,  nor  did  we  observe  any 
among  others.  We  were  fortunate  in 
having  no  "grouches"  among  us.   Har- 

[94] 


No  Grouches 

mony,  cheerfulness,  a  disposition  to  be 
jolly,  even  to  the  degree  of  hilarity, 
was  the  prevailing  spirit.  That,  too, 
under  circumstances  often  so  trying 
that  they  might  have  thrown  a  sensi- 
tive disposition  out  of  balance.  All 
this  in  the  wilds  of  an  unorganized 
territory,  where  there  was  no  law  to 
govern,  other  than  the  character  and 
natural  bent  of  individuals.  Such  lack 
of  established  authority  we  had 
thought  might  lead  to  recklessness  or 
aggressive  conduct,  but  it  did  not. 

Present  residents  in  the  fields  and 
valleys,  and  the  prosperous  towns  along 
much  of  the  line  of  travel  described, 
will  find  it  difficult  to  reconcile  the 
accounts  here  given  with  conditions  as 
they  see  them  now.  Leagues  of  terri- 
tory now  bearing  a  network  of  rail- 
roads and  splendid  highways,  which 
carry  rich  harvests  from  the  well- 
tilled  farms,  and  connect  numerous 
cities,  was  thought  of  ordinarily  by  the 
emigrants  in  early  days  only  as  it  ap- 

[95]  * 


Crossing  the  Plains 

peared  to  them,  and  then  was,  the 
stamping  ground  of  savage  tribes  and 
the  home  of  wild  beasts,  untouched  by 
the  transforming  hand  of  civilization. 
To  the  keen  observer,  however,  it  was 
evident  that  we  were  passing  through  a 
great  deal  of  fine  country.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
part  of  that  journey  was  through  lands 
naturally  barren,  some  desert  wastes, 
much  of  which  is  still  unreclaimed, 
some  unreclaimable. 


[96] 


CHAPTER  VII. 

TANGLED  BY  A  TORNADO.   LOST  THE  PACE 

BUT  KEPT  THE  COW.    HUMAN  ODDITIES. 

NIGHT-GUARDS.     WOLF  SERENADES. 

AWE    OF    THE    WILDERNESS. 

A  STAMPEDE. 

Few  readers  need  peruse  these  pages 
to  learn  what  a  thunder-storm  is 
like,  but  many  may  not  know  what  it 
is  to  encounter  a  fierce  electrical  dis- 
turbance while  surrounded  by  a  herd 
of  uncontrollable  cattle  on  the  prairie. 

On  an  occasion  after  having  stopped 
for  a  "nooning,"  there  loomed  up  sud- 
denly in  the  northwest  a  black,  omi- 
nous cloud,  revolving  swiftly  and 
threateningly,  as  might  the  vapors 
from  some  gigantic  cauldron;  varie- 
gated in  black,  blue  and  green,  be- 
spangled with  red  streaks  of  lightning. 

This  display  of  the  angry  elements 

[97] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

was  making  a  broadening  sweep  on- 
ward directly  towards  where  we  were. 
The  air  turned  black  and  murky,  and 
was  vibrant  with  electric  tension. 
Flocks  of  buzzards  flew  low  to  the 
earth  about  us,  as  if  to  be  ready  for 
the  carrion  of  the  impending  catas- 
trophe. The  fear  instinct  of  the  brute 
seized  the  cattle,  and  they  hovered  to- 
gether, bellowing,  distraught  with  ap- 
prehension of  evil. 

The  whirlpool  of  atmospheric  chaos 
grew  more  intense  and  rapidly  larger 
as  it  approached.  Globules  of  water 
began  to  "spat!  spat!"  on  the  ground, 
here  and  there,  as  the  storm-cloud 
opened  its  batteries  of  liquid  balls. 
There  was  only  such  protection  as  the 
wagons  afforded.  Whatever  prepara- 
tion we  could  make  must  be  effected  at 
once. 

Knowing  that  if  the  cattle  should 
take  fright  and  run,  it  Would  be  better 
that  they  leave  the  wagons,  I  dropped 
the    wagon-tongue    to    which    I    was 

[98] 


Meeting  the  Storm 

hitching  a  team,  and  called  to  a  boy 
who  was  hooking  up  the  next  wagon, 
telling  him  not  to  do  so.  He  had,  how- 
ever, already  attached  to  that  wagon 
the  team  consisting  of  three  yoke  of 
oxen. 

The  big  drops  of  water  were  in  a 
moment  followed  by  hailstones,  at  first 
very  large  and  scattering,  striking  the 
ground  each  with  a  vicious  thud — a 
subdued  "whack";  growing  more  fre- 
quent and  presently  mingled  with 
lesser  ones;  until,  in  the  shortest  mo- 
ment, there  was  a  cloud-burst  of  hail 
and  rain  pouring  upon  us,  a  storm  such 
as  none  of  us  had  ever  witnessed. 

The  oxen,  chained  together  in  strings 
of  three  and  four  pairs,  pelted  by  the 
hail,  were  mutinous  and  altogether  un- 
controllable. My  own  string,  having 
turned  crosswise  of  the  front  end  of 
the  wagon,  were  pushing  it  backward, 
down  the  hillside.  The  team  in  charge 
of  the  boy,  being  attached  to  their 
wagon    and   heading   away   from   the 

[99] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

storm,  were  turning  the  wagon  over. 
Knowing  that  the  boy's  mother  was  in 
the  "schooner,"  on  a  sick  bed,  I  left 
my  wagon  and  ran  to  that.  As  the 
oxen,  in  trying  to  shield  themselves 
from  the  hail,  were  forcing  the  front 
wheels  around  under  the  wagon-box,  I 
was  fortunate  enough  to  get  a  shoulder 
under  one  corner  of  the  box  and  exert 
sufficient  force  to  prevent  the  wagon 
upsetting.  All  this  took  little  more 
than  a  minute.  The  storm  passed 
away  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come. 
Then  I  saw  the  wagon  which  was  my 
special  charge  lying  on  its  side,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  slope;  the  bows  of  the 
cover  fitting  snugly  into  a  sort  of 
natural  gutter,  with  a  swift  current 
of  muddy  water  and  hailstones  flow- 
ing through  the  cover,  as  if  it  were  a 
sluice-pipe.  Everything  in  the  wagon 
was  topsy-turvy;  and,  half  buried  in 
the  heap  were  two  little  girls,  who  had 
been  riding  in  the  vehicle.  They  were 
more  frightened  than  hurt,  but  com- 

[100] 


The  Author — Twenty  years  after 


Breaking  a  Stampede 

plained  loudly  at  being  placed  in  a 
cold-storage  of  hailstones. 

Meantime,  the  sun  beamed  again, 
clear  and  hot,  and  we  saw  the  storm- 
cloud  pursuing  its  course  over  the 
plain  to  the  southeast,  leaving  in  its 
wake  a  wet  path  a  few  rods  wide. 

The  other  men  had  their  hands  full 
in  caring  for  endangered  members  of 
the  party  and  the  equipment.  The 
loose  stock  had  stampeded  and  were 
far  away,  with  some  of  the  mounted 
men  in  desperate  pursuit.  They  even- 
tually brought  the  cattle  to  a  halt, 
about  five  miles  away,  where  the 
wagons  overtook  them  when  it  was 
time  to  make  camp. 

Continuous  travel  over  rough  ground 
and  through  deep  sand,  and  ascending 
steep  mountains,  proved  too  great  a 
strain  for  the  endurance  of  some  out- 
fits. From  time  to  time  we  were 
obliged  to  witness  instances  of  extreme 
privation  and  hardship,  usually  the 
result  of  inadequate  preparation  for 

[101] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

the  arduous  journey.  Some  started 
with  only  enough  oxen  to  carry  them 
in  case  all  should  remain  serviceable; 
and  carried  provisions  for  no  more 
than  the  shortest  limit  of  time  esti- 
mated ;  so  that  the  mishap  of  losing  an 
ox  or  two,  or  any  delay,  worked  a 
calamity.  Some  trains  started  so  late, 
or  were  so  much  delayed,  that  they 
were  compelled  to  negotiate  passage  of 
the  higher  mountains  after  the  time 
when  enormous  snow-drifts  had  to  be 
encountered;  further  delay  resulting, 
with  exhaustion  of  strength  and  deple- 
tion of  supplies,  in  consequence  of 
which  many  members  of  some  trains 
failed  to  reach  their  destination.  A 
notable  experience  of  this  kind  was 
that  of  the  Donner  party,  in  1846. 

It  was  in  one  of  the  higher  mountain 
regions  that  we  overtook  one  Eben 
Darby  and  his  family.  Darby  had 
been  with  one  of  the  trains  in  advance 
of  us,  but  being  unable  to  keep  the 
pace,  he  was  obliged  to  fall  behind. 

[102] 


Darby's  Predicament 

He  had  one  small  wagon,  two  yoke  of 
oxen,  and  a  cow;  the  latter  led  by  a 
rope  behind  the  wagon.  His  wife,  with 
a  young  baby,  and  the  wife's  brother, 
Danny  Worley,  were  the  only  persons 
with  Darby.  The  wife  was  a  weak, 
inexperienced  girl;  the  child  sickly. 
Mrs.  Darby's  brother  was  a  large,  fat 
youth  of  nineteen,  whose  distinguish- 
ing and  inconvenient  characteristc  was 
an  abnormal  appetite.  Their  provi- 
sions were  nearly  exhausted.  The  cow 
was  to  them  the  real  fountain  of  life. 
She  was  doing  nobly — supplying  them 
a  quart  of  milk  a  day,  which  was  won- 
derful, considering  the  circumstances. 
This  milk  fed  the  baby,  and  afforded  a 
good  substitute  for  butter,  in  the  form 
of  milk  gravy — on  which  Danny  fared 
sumptuously  every  day. 

Later  their  oxen  drank  of  the  alkali 
water  of  the  Humboldt  River,  and 
three  of  the  four  died  in  one  night. 
Then  the  cow  was  yoked  with  the  re- 
maining ox,   two   steers  were  loaned 

[103] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

them  by  "good  Samaritans"  in  our 
company,  and  they  were  with  us  to  the 
Sink  of  the  Humboldt. 

Meantime  the  milk  supply  grew  less, 
and  Mrs.  Darby  was  compelled  to  sub- 
stitute water  for  milk  in  the  gravy. 
This  sop  was  not  satisfactory  to 
Danny.  One  evening  at  meal  time  he 
was  overheard  by  some  of  our  boys, 
saying,  "I  want  milk  in  my  gravy." 
Though  reminded  there  was  only 
enough  milk  for  the  baby,  he  of  the 
phenomenal  appetite  reiterated,  "I 
don't  care,  I  want  milk  in  my  gravy." 
Thereafter  "Gravy"  was  the  name  by 
which  he  was  known,  so  long  as  he 
traveled  with  us. 

This  narrative  would  not  do  justice 
to  the  variety  of  individuals  and  events 
without  mention  of  another  singular 
personage,  a  young  fellow  who  was 
"working  his  passage";  a  sort  of  dis- 
connected unit,  whose  place  became 
everywhere  in  the  train,  and  who  be- 
longed to  nobody.     How  he  got  smug- 

[104] 


A  Desert  Stowaway 

gled  into  the  company  no  one  has  since 
been  able  to  recall.  He  was  a  sort  of 
desert  stowaway ;  tolerated  because, 
though  eccentric  and  quite  alarming  in 
appearance,  he  was  always  in  good 
humor,  and  often  useful,  having  a 
willingness  to  do  as  many  of  the  chores 
as  others  would  trust  him  to  perform. 
He  was  notable  as  a  physical  curiosity, 
though  not  actually  deformed.  Low  of 
stature,  he  came  to  be  known  as 
"Shorty,"  the  only  name  we  ever  had 
for  him.  As  he  stood,  his  abnormally 
long  arms  enabled  him  to  take  his 
hat  from  the  ground  without  stooping. 
His  legs  were  not  mates  in  length, 
causing  him  as  he  moved,  with  a  quick, 
rocking  gait,  to  create  the  impression 
that  he  might  topple  backward;  but 
somehow  the  longer  leg  always  got 
underneath  at  the  critical  instant,  and 
restored  the  balance.  His  head  was 
large,  and  perfectly  round;  hair  por- 
cupinesque,  each  bristle  standing 
nearly  perpendicular  to  the  plane  on 

[105] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

which  it  grew.  He  had  no  neck.  Mouth 
small,  and  so  round  that  it  opened  not 
unlike  a  bored  hole  in  a  flesh-colored 
pumpkin. 

"Shorty"  asserted  that  he  was  a 
singer.  He  and  "Jack"  never  sang 
together,  however — that  is,  they  never 
did  so  any  more,  after  trying  it  once. 
"Shorty"  and  "Gravy"  Worley  became 
chums  inseparable,  except  on  one  occa- 
sion, when  their  friendship  was  tem- 
porarily ruptured  by  a  dispute  over 
the  ownership  of  a  fishing  hook.  Anger 
grew  hot,  but  when  they  were  about  to 
come  to  blows,  "Shorty"  suddenly 
dropped  on  "all-fours"  and  essayed  to 
butt  his  adversary  with  his  head,  which 
surprising  mode  of  combat  so  discon- 
certed "Gravy"  that  he  ran  for  his 
quarters,  wildly  yelling,  "Take  him  off, 
take  him  off." 

For  a  time  during  the  early  part  of 
the  journey  the  horses  and  mules  were 
picketed  at  night,  on  the  best  pasture 
available;  and  .before  we  retired,  all 

[106] 


Brute  Instinct 

the  animals  were  brought  near  the 
wagons,  the  loose  cattle  bunched  with 
them,  and  guards  were  placed,  to  pre- 
vent straying  of  the  stock  or  surprise 
by  Indians.  Later,  for  awhile,  these 
precautions  were  deemed  unnecessary, 
though  still  later  they  had  to  be  re- 
sumed. The  stock  became  accustomed 
to  the  daily  routine,  and  after  the  all- 
day  travel,  were  quite  willing,  when 
they  had  finished  their  evening  grazing, 
to  assemble  near  the  camp  and  lie 
down  for  the  night,  usually  remaining 
comparatively  quiet  till  morning.  As 
if  having  some  realization  of  the  lonely 
nature  of  the  surroundings,  the  ani- 
mals were  not  disposed  to  stray  off, 
except  on  rare  occasions;  but  rather  to 
keep  within  sight  of  the  people  and 
the  wagons. 

There  was  proof  of  the  theory  that 
in  some  circumstances  domestic  ani- 
mals acquire  some  of  that  feeling  that 
human  creatures  know,  when  far  from 
the  habitations  of  man.     There  is  a 

[107] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

peculiar  sensation  in  the  great  and 
boundless  contiguity  of  empty  silence 
which  works  the  senses  up  to  a  feeling 
that  is  somewhat  alike  in  man  and 
beast — that  there  is  most  comfort  and 
protection  near  the  center  of  the  set- 
tlement or  camp.  In  this  stillness  of 
the  night — and  night  on  these  plains 
was  often  very  still — any  slight  noise 
outside  the  camp  startled  and  thrilled 
the  taut  nerves.  Not  only  was  the 
night  still ;  usually  it  was  silent,  too. 

But  occasionally,  when  the  silence 
was  absolute,  a  couple  or  more  of  prai- 
rie-wolves lurking  in  the  vicinity, 
without  the  faintest  note  of  prelude, 
would  startle  the  calm  of  night  with 
their  peculiar  commingling  of  barks, 
howls  and  wails, — a  racket  all  their 
own.  It  was  the  habit  of  these  night 
prowlers  of  the  desert  to  come  as  near 
to  the  camp  as  their  acute  sense  of 
safety  permitted,  and  there,  sitting  on 
their  haunches,  their  noses  pointed  to 
the  moon,  render  a  serenade  that  was 

[108] 


Chattering  Coyotes 

truly  thrilling.  Two  prairie- wolves,  in 
a  fugued  duet,  can  emit  more  dis- 
quieting noise,  with  a  less  proportion  of 
harmony,  than  any  aggregation  of  sev- 
eral times  their  equal  in  numbers,  not 


A  coyote  serenade 

excepting  Indians  on  the  war-path  or 
a  "gutter"  band. 

That  awe  of  the  wilderness  to  which 
reference  has  been  made,  and  its  effect 
on  the  nerves,  may  explain  the  stam- 
pede of  cattle,  often  not  otherwise  ac- 
counted for;  which  occurs  sometimes 
in  these  hollow  solitudes.  It  occurs 
nowhere  else  that  I  have  known. 

[109] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

Several  times  we  experienced  this 
strange  exhibition  of  sudden  panic ;  the 
snapping,  as  it  were,  of  the  nerves, 
from  undue  tension,  when,  instantly, 
from  cause  then  to  us  unknown  and 
unguessed,  the  whole  band  of  cattle, 
teams  as  well  as  loose  stock,  made  a 
sudden,  wild,  furious  dash,  in  a  com- 
pact mass;  seeming  instinctively  to 
follow  in  whatever  direction  the  lead- 
er's impulse  led  him;  drifting  together 
and  forward  as  naturally  as  water 
flows  to  the  current;  with  heads  and 
tails  high  in  air;  blindly  trampling  to 
the  earth  whatever  chanced  to  be  in 
their  path. 

These  were  not  in  any  sense  wild 
stock.  The  cattle,  horses  and  mules 
were  all  animals  that  had  been  raised 
on  the  quiet  farms  of  the  Middle  West, 
well  domesticated. 

In  the  light  of  certain  modern  the- 
ories it  might  be  said  by  some  that 
these  otherwise  docile  animals  stam- 
peded on  the  unpeopled  plains  because 

[HO] 


Cattle  Unrestrained 

they  heard  the  "call  of  the  wild." 
There  were,  however,  occasions  when 
the  cause  could  be  readily  assigned  for 
this  temporary  casting  off  of  restraint. 

In  one  instance,  already  mentioned, 
a  sudden,  pelting  hailstorm  was  the 
undoubted  cause;  when,  taking  the 
stampede  temper,  they  ran  five  or  six 
miles  before  the  man,  mounted  on  one 
of  our  fleetest  saddle-horses,  got  in 
front  of  the  foremost  of  them  and 
checked  their  running. 

On  all  such  occasions  control  could 
be  regained  in  only  one  way.  Speed- 
ing his  horse  till  he  overtook  and 
passed  the  leader  of  the  drove  the  rider 
made  his  horse  the  leader ;  and  as  each 
loose  animal  always  followed  whatever 
was  in  front,  the  horseman,  by  making 
a  circuit  and  gradually  slackening  the 
pace,  led  the  drove  around  and  back  to 
place  in  the  line  of  travel. 

Naturally  one  source  of  uneasiness 
was  the  thought  of  what  our  situation 
would  be  if,  on  one  of  these  occasions, 
[in] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

we  should  fail  to  regain  control  of  these 
animals,  so  necessary  to  us  in  continu- 
ing the  westward  journey.  A  stam- 
pede when  some  of  the  oxen  were 
yoked  to  the  wagons  was,  of  course, 
more  serious  in  its  immediate  conse- 
quences than  when  it  happened  while 
all  were  detached  from  the  equipment. 
A  stampede  occurred  one  day  in  a 
level  stretch  of  country,  open  in  every 
direction;  nothing  in  sight  to  cause 
alarm.  There  the  emigrant  road 
showed  plainly  before  us.  The  wagons 
were  in  open  single  file,  the  loose  stock 
drawn  out  in  line  at  the  rear.  Men  on 
horseback,  hats  over  their  eyes,  some 
of  them  with  one  leg  curled  over  the 
pommel  of  the  saddle;  lazily  droning 
away  the  slow  hours  and  the  humdrum 
miles.  The  women  and  children  were 
stowed  away  on  bundles  of  baggage 
and  camp  stuff  in  the  wagons,  some 
of  them  asleep  perhaps,  rocked  in  their 
"schooner"  cradles.  A  few  of  the 
men  and  boys  perchance  were  strolling 

[112] 


First  Death 

off  the  way,  in  the  hope  of  starting  a 
sage  grouse  or  rabbit  from  some  shel- 
tering clump  of  brush.  During  a  spe- 
cially quiet  routine  like  this ;  the  cattle 
lolling  behind  the  wagons,  mostly  un- 
attended, keeping  the  snail  pace  set  by 
the  patient  teams;  a  steer  now  and 
again  turning  aside  to  appropriate  a 
tuft  of  bunch-grass;  their  white  horns 
rising  and  falling  in  the  brilliant  sun- 
light, with  the  swaying  motion  of  their 
bodies  as  they  walked,  shimmered  like 
waves  of  a  lake  at  noonday  before  a 
gentle  breeze:  quickly  as  a  clap  of  the 
hands,  every  loose  beast  in  the  band,  in 
the  wildest  fashion  of  terror,  started, 
straight  in  the  course  of  the  moving 
line — pell-mell,  they  went,  veering  for 
nothing  that  they  could  run  over; 
sweeping  on,  with  a  roaring  tramp, 
like  muffled  thunder,  they  passed  along 
both  sides  of  the  train.  The  teams, 
catching  the  frenzy,  took  up  the  race, 
as  best  they  could  with  their  heavy 
impedimenta;    all    beyond    control    of 

[113] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

their  drivers  or  the  herders,  who,  star- 
tled from  the  reverie  of  the  moment, 
could  do  no  better  than  dodge  to  such 
place  of  safety  as  they  found,  and 
stand  aghast  at  the  spectacle.  Fortu- 
nately the  draft  oxen  usually  were 
forced  to  stop  running  before  they 
went  far,  owing  to  the  weight  of  the 
wagons  they  hauled  and  their  inability 
to  break  the  yokes. 

In  this  particular  instance  the  most 
serious  casualty  was  the  death  of  a 
boy,  about  eight  years  of  age,  the  son 
of  Dr.  Kidd.  The  child  was  probably 
asleep  in  a  wagon,  and  being  aroused 
by  the  unusal  commotion,  may  have 
attempted  to  look  out,  when  a  jolt  of 
the  wagon  threw  him  to  the  ground, 
and  he  was  trampled  to  death.  The 
body  was  kept  in  camp  overnight,  and 
the  next  morning  wrapped  in  a  sheet 
and  buried  by  the  roadside. 

This  was  in  a  vast  stretch  of  lonely 
plain.  As  we  journeyed  through  it, 
viewing  the  trackless  hills  and  rock- 

[114] 


Then  and  Now 

ribbed  mountains  not  far  away  on 
either  side,  mostly  barren  and  uninvit- 
ing, it  was  difficult  to  conceive  of  that 
territory  ever  becoming  the  permanent 
homes  of  men.  Yet  it  is  possible,  and 
probable,  that  the  grave  of  Dr.  Kidd's 
little  boy  is  today  within  the  limits  of 
a  populous  community,  or  even  be- 
neath a  noisy  thoroughfare  of  some 
busy  town. 


[115] 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

DISASTER    OVERTAKES     THE     WOOD 
FAMILY. 

Our  consolidated  train  continued  its 
creeping  pace  down  the  meandering 
Humboldt;  crossing  the  stream  occa- 
sionally, to  gain  the  advantage  of  a 
shorter  or  better  road. 

Soon  again  there  were  other  proofs 
of  the  wisdom  we  had  shown  in  tak- 
ing every  possible  precaution  against 
attack. 

Next  ahead  of  us  was  a  family  from 
England,  a  Mr.  Wood,  his  wife  and 
one  child,  with  two  men  employed  as 
drivers.  They  were  outfitted  with 
three  vehicles,  two  of  them  drawn  by 
ox  teams,  in  charge  of  the  hired  men, 
and  a  lighter,  spring-wagon,  drawn  by 

[116] 


Danger  Near 

four  mules,  the  family  conveyance, 
driven  by  Mr.  Wood.  We  had  not 
known  them  before. 

One  very  hot  day  in  the  latter  part 
of  August,  after  having  moved  along 
for  a  time  with  no  train  in  sight  ahead 
of  us,  we  came  upon  Mr.  Wood  in  a 
most  pitiable  plight,  the  result  of  an 
attack  and  slaughter,  not  differing 
greatly  from  the  Holloway  case,  and 
its  parallel  in  atrocity. 

Mr.  Wood's  party  had  spent  the  pre- 
ceding night  undisturbed,  and  were  up 
early  in  the  morning,  preparing  to 
resume  their  journey.  The  ox  teams 
had  been  made  ready  and  moved  on, 
while  Mr.  Wood  proceeded  in  a  leis- 
urely way  with  harnessing  the  four 
mules  and  attaching  them  to  the 
smaller  Wagon.  All  the  articles  of 
their  equipment  had  been  gathered  up 
and  placed  in  proper  order  in  the 
wagon. 

When  Mr.  Wood  had  nearly  com- 
pleted hitching  the  team,  Mrs.  Wood 

[117] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

and  the  baby  being  already  in  the 
wagon,  some  men,  apparently  all 
Indians,  twenty  or  more  of  them,  were 
seen  coming  on  horseback,  galloping 
rapidly  from  the  hills  to  the  northward, 
about  half  a  mile  away. 

Mr.  Wood,  fearing  that  he  and  his 
family  were  about  to  be  attacked,  in 
this  lonely  situation,  hurriedly  sprang 
to  the  wagon  seat  and  whipped  up  the 
mules,  hoping  that  before  the  attack 
they  could  come  within  sight  of  the  ox 
wagons,  which  had  rounded  the  point 
of  a  hill  but  a  few  minutes  before,  and 
have  such  aid  as  his  hired  men  could 
give. 

He  had  no  more  than  got  the  team 
under  way  when  a  wheel  came  off  the 
wagon — he  having  probably  overlooked 
replacing  the  nut  after  oiling  the  axle. 
Notwithstanding  this  he  lost  no  time 
in  making  the  best  of  the  circum- 
stances. Jumping  to  the  ground,  he 
hurriedly  placed  Mrs.  Wood  on  one 
of  the  mules,  cutting  the  harness  to 

[118] 


The  Attack 

release  the  animal  from  the  wagon; 
then,  with  the  baby  in  his  arms,  he 
mounted  another  mule,  and  they 
started  flight. 

But  the  Indians  had  by  this  time 
come  within  gun-shot  range  and  fired 
upon  them.  Mrs.  Wood  fell  from  the 
mule,  fatally  shot.  Mr.  Wood's  mule 
was  shot  under  him,  and  dropped ;  next 
Mr.  Wood  received  a  bullet  in  the  right 
arm,  that  opened  the  flesh  from  wrist 
to  elbow.  That  or  another  shot  killed 
the  child.  Amidst  a  shower  of  bullets, 
Mr.  Wood  ran  in  the  direction  taken 
by  his  ox  wagons.  Getting  past  the 
point  of  the  low  hill  that  lay  just  be- 
fore him  without  being  struck  again, 
he  was  then  beyond  range  of  the  firing, 
and  soon  overtook  his  wagons.  His 
men,  with  all  the  guns  they  had,  re- 
turned, to  find  the  woman  and  child 
dead  on  the  ground.  One  of  the  mules 
was  dead,  one  wounded,  the  other  two 
gone.  The  wagon  had  been  ransacked 
of  its  contents,  and  the  band  of  assas- 

[119] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

sins  were  making  their  way  back  into 
the  hills  whence  they  had  come. 

This  small  wagon,  Mr.  Wood  said, 
had  contained  the  family  effects;  and 
among  them  were  several  articles  of 
considerable  value,  all  of  which  had 
been  taken.  Among  his  property  were 
pieces  of  English  gold  coin,  the  equiv- 
alent of  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  It 
had  been  concealed  in  the  bottom  of 
the  wagon-box,  and  he  had  supposed 
the  band  would  overlook  it;  but  that, 
too,  was  gone. 

Such  was  the  plight  in  which  our 
company  found  the  man,  soon  after 
this  tragedy  was  so  swiftly  enacted, 
and  which  so  effectually  bereft  him 
of  all,  his  family  and  his  property, 
leaving  him  wounded,  and  dependent 
on  the  mercy  of  strangers. 

The  dead  were  placed  in  mummy- 
form  wrappings  and  buried,  mother 
and  child  in  one,  unmarked  grave. 

When  the  manuscript  of  this  narra- 
tive   was   first   made    ready   for    the 

[120] 


A  Gruesome  Detail 

printer,  the  description  of  the  calamity 
which  befell  Mr.  Wood  and  his  family 
ended  here.  There  were  other  details, 
as  clearly  recalled  as  those  already 
recited,  but  so  atrocious  and  devoid  of 
motive,  that  it  was  a  matter  of  grave 
doubt  whether  the  facts  should  be 
given.  It  seemed  too  deplorable  that 
such  an  occurrence  could  be  recorded 
as  the  act  of  human  beings;  further- 
more, would  it  be  credible?  It  has 
been  intimated  that  the  present  en- 
deavor is  to  give  a  complete  history  of 
events  as  they  occurred:  no  material 
item  suppressed,  nothing  imaginary 
included;  therefore  the  remaining 
details  are  given. 

Incredible  as  it  may  sound  to  civil- 
ized ears,  after  the  bodies  of  Mrs. 
Wood  and  her  child  had  been  interred, 
hardly  had  those  who  performed  this 
service  gone  from  the  spot  when  a  part 
of  the  savage  band  that  had  murdered 
those  innocent  victims,  rushed  wildly 
back  to  the  place,  disinterred  the  bodies 

[121] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

from  the  shallow  grave,  taking  the 
sheets  in  which  the  bodies  had  been 
wrapped,  and  which  were  their  only 
covering,  and  carrying  those  articles 
away.  When  the  Indians  had  gone  a 
second  time,  the  grief-stricken  Mr. 
Wood  returned  and  reinterred  the 
remains  of  his  wife  and  child. 

Mr.  Wood's  wounded  arm  was 
dressed  by  Dr.  Maxwell  and  Dr.  Kidd, 
his  wagons  were  placed  in  the  lead  of 
our  train,  and  again  we  moved  west- 
ward. 


[122] 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MYSTERIOUS  VISITORS.    EXTRA  SENTRIES. 
AN   ANXIOUS   NIGHT. 

The  next  following  day,  as  we 
wended  our  way  among  the  sand 
dunes,  alkali  flats  and  faded  sage- 
brush, there  came  to  us — whence  we 
knew  not — three  men,  equipped  with  a 
small  wagon,  covered  with  white  duck- 
ing, arched  over  bows,  similar  to  the 
covering  on  most  of  the  emigrant  wag- 
ons; drawn  by  two  large,  handsome, 
well-harnessed  horses;  all  having  a 
well-to-do  appearance,  that  made  our 
dusty,  travel-worn  outfits  look  very 
cheap  and  inferior. 

They  told  us  that  they  were  moun- 
taineers, of  long  experience  on  the 
plains;  well  acquainted  with  the  In- 
dians and  familiar  with  their  habits 
and    savage   proclivities.      They   said 

[123] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

that  the  Shoshone  Indians  were  very 
angry  at  the  white  people  who  were 
passing  through  their  lands;  that  this 
hostility  recently  had  been  further 
aroused  by  certain  alleged  acts  of  the 
whites  along  the  emigrant  road;  and 
that  the  feeling  was  now  so  intense 
that  even  they,  our  informants,  were 
alarmed,  notwithstanding  their  long, 
intimate  and  friendly  intercourse  with 
these  Indians;  and,  believing  them- 
selves no  longer  safe  among  the  tribe, 
they  were  anxious  to  get  out  of  the 
Shoshone  country;  therefore  they  re- 
quested the  privilege  of  placing  them- 
selves under  the  protection  of  our  large 
train  until  we  should  have  passed  out 
of  the  Shoshone  lands  and  into  those  of 
the  Pah-Utes,  which  tribe  they  said 
was  known  to  be  friendly  toward  the 
white  race. 

One  of  these  men  was  a  specially 
picturesque  figure ;  weighty,  with  large, 
square  shoulders;  well-formed  head; 
full,  brown  beard,  cropped  short.     He 

[124] 


Our  Proteges 

wore  a  deer-skin  blouse,  leathern 
breeches ;  broad,  stiff -brimmed  hat,  low 
crown,  flat  top,  decorated  with  a  tas- 
seled  leather  band;  a  fully-loaded  am- 
munition belt — a  combination  make-up 
of  cowboy,  mountaineer  and  highway- 
man. 

The  three  men  spoke  plain  English, 
with  a  free  use  of  "frontier  adjectives." 

Having  received  permission  to  take 
temporary  protection  by  traveling  near 
us,  they  placed  themselves  at  the  rear 
of  our  train,  and  that  night  pitched 
camp  slightly  apart  from  our  circle  of 
wagons. 

Some  of  our  men  visited  them  dur- 
ing the  evening,  eager  to  hear  their 
tales  of  adventure;  and  listened,  open- 
mouthed,  to  descriptions  of  life  among 
savage  associations,  in  the  mountain 
wilds,  jungles  and  the  desert  plains. 

The  visitors  dwelt  with  emphasis  on 
the  threatening  attitude  of  the  Sho- 
shone Indians  towards  the  emigrants; 
warning    us    that    our    position    was 

[125] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

hazardous,  with  caution  that  there  was 
special  risk  incurred  by  individuals 
who  wandered  away  from  the  train, 
thus  inviting  a  chance  of  being  shot 
by  Redskins,  ambushed  among  the 
bunches  of  sagebrush.  They  were 
especially  earnest  as  they  assured  us  of 
the  peril  there  would  be  in  loitering 
away  from  the  body  of  the  company, 
as  they  had  noticed  some  of  our  boys 
doing,  that  day,  while  hunting  for 
sage  fowls. 

After  awhile,  he  of  the  big  hat  in- 
quired— and  seemed  almost  to  tremble 
with  solicitude  as  he  spoke : 

"Are  you  prepared  to  defend  your- 
selves, in  case  of  an  attack  ?" 

Here  unpleasant  surmises  gave  place 
to  distinct  suspicions  in  the  minds  of 
some  of  our  older  men.  They  regarded 
that  question  as  a  "Give-away."  All 
the  day,  since  these  three  joined  us,  we 
had  felt  that  they  might  be  spies,  and 
in  league  with  the  Indians.  So  now 
not  a  few  of  us  were  giving  closest 

[126] 


Awaiting  Encounter 

attention,    both    with    ears   and   eyes. 

An  answer  was  ready:  That  we 
were  prepared,  and  waiting  for  the  en- 
counter; with  a  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  shots  for  the  first  round;  that  we 
could  reload  as  rapidly  as  could  the 
Indians;  and  had  ammunition  in  store 
for  a  long  siege. 

The  actual  fact  was  that,  although 
every  man  of  us  had  some  sort  of  a 
"shooting-iron,"  they  were  not  for- 
midable. In  kind,  these  varied  well 
through  the  entire  range  of  infantry, 
from  a  four-inch  six-shooter  to  a  four- 
foot  muzzle-loader,  and  from  a  single- 
barreled  shotgun  on  up  to  a  Sharp's 
repeating  rifle.  The  weapon  last  men- 
tioned carried  a  rotating  cylinder,  for 
five  shells,  and  was  the  latest  thing  in 
quick- fire  repeating  arms  of  that  time : 
but  there  was  only  one  of  that  class  in 
the  train.  Had  we  been  seen  on  mus- 
ter, standing  at  "present  arms,"  the 
array  would  have  been  less  terrifying 
than  comical. 

[  127  i 


Crossing  the  Plains 

Just  how  our  visitors  received  our 
bluff  with  reference  to  preparedness 
for  battle  we  could  not  know.  The 
next  morning  these  mysterious  stran- 
gers took  position  in  the  rear  of  our 
train  once  more,  carrying  a  small  white 
flag,  mounted  on  a  pole  fastened  to 
their  wagon.  Upon  being  asked  the 
purpose  of  the  flag  they  replied  that  it 
served  as  a  signal  to  any  one  of  their 
number  who  might  go  beyond  view, 
enabling  him  to  determine  the  location 
of  the  wagon. 

Captain  John  reminded  them  that, 
according  to  their  statements,  wander- 
ing out  of  sight  was  too  hazardous  to 
be  done  or  considered;  adding  that 
therefore  there  did  not  seem  to  be  any 
need  of  the  flag,  and  he  wanted  it  to 
be  taken  down. 

It  came  down. 

During  the  noon-hour  stop  that  day, 
while  the  doctors  were  dressing  Mr. 
Wood's  wounded  arm,  he  obtained  a 
first  look  at  our  three  proteges.    He  at 

[128] 


A  Grave  Charge 

once  indicated  the  man  wearing  the 
big,  brown  hat,  and  stated,  excitedly 
but  confidentially,  to  those  of  our 
company  who  were  near  him : 

"I  believe  that  man  was  with  the 
Indians  who  killed  my  wife  and  child." 

That  statement  naturally  created  a 
much  greater  feeling  of  uneasiness 
among  us.  The  assertion  was  whis- 
pered around;  and  every  man  of  us 
became  a  detective.  The  leading  men 
of  our  party  put  their  heads  together 
in  council.  The  situation  was  more 
than  ever  grave  and  the  suspense  dis- 
tinctly painful.  We  feared  something 
tragic  would  happen  any  hour. 

Mr.  Wood  was  asked  to  obtain  an- 
other view  of  the  man  and  endeavor  to 
make  his  statement  more  definite,  if  he 
could.  His  wound,  and  the  terrible 
shock  he  had  sustained  two  days  pre- 
viously, had  so  prostrated  him  that  he 
was  unable  to  make  haste.  Arrange- 
ments were  made  to  disguise  him  and 
have  him  go  where  he  could  obtain  a 

[129] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

good  view  of  the  three  men,  but  his 
condition  prevented  it. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  the  three- 
men-afraid-of-Indians  announced  that 
we  had  passed  out  of  the  territory  of 
the  savage  Shoshones;  they  felt  it 
would  be  safe  for  them  to  dispense 
with  our  kind  escort,  therefore,  after 
camping  near  us  that  night,  they  would 
withdraw  and  bid  us  a  thankful  good- 
bye. 

We  camped  that  night  on  a  level 
place,  where  there  was  sage-brush 
three  or  four  feet  high,  and  thick 
enough  to  make  good  cover  for  an 
enemy.  Our  people,  having  become 
thoroughly  distrustful  of  the  three  men 
who  had  made  themselves  appendages 
of  our  train,  feared  an  attack  would 
be  made  on  our  camp  that  night.  Sus- 
picion had  developed  into  a  fixed  belief 
that  the  trio  were  confederates  of  the 
Shoshones,  and  had  come  to  us  under 
a  pretense  of  fear  on  their  part,  in 
order  to  spy  out  the  fighting  strength 
of  our  company. 

[130] 


The  Night-watch 

The  place  where  they  halted  their 
wagon  and  prepared  to  spend  the  night 
was  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards 
from  where  our  vehicles  were  ar- 
ranged, in  the  usual  hollow  circle,  with 
the  camp-fire  and  the  people  inclosed. 

When  darkness  set  in,  guards  of  our 
best  men,  armed  with  the  most  effective 
guns  we  had,  were  quietly  distributed 
about  the  camp,  the  chosen  men  crawl- 
ing on  their  hands  and  knees  to  their 
allotted  positions,  in  order  that  the 
three  strangers  should  not  know  our 
arrangements.  There  was  an  under- 
standing that,  if  there  should  be  an 
attack  during  the  night,  the  first  thing 
to  do  was,  if  possible,  to  shoot  those 
three  men;  for,  under  the  circum- 
stances, any  attack  occurring  that 
night  would  be  deemed  completion  of 
proof  that  they  were  responsible  for  it 
and  for  any  atrocity  that  might  follow 
or  be  attempted. 

The  night  passed  without  notable 
happening — except  that  at  the  break  of 

[131] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

day  the  three  men  and  their  wagon 
silently  stole  away. 

There  was  a  feeling  of  great  relief 
on  being  rid  of  them;  but  there  re- 
mained some  apprehension  of  their 
turning  up  at  some  unguarded  moment 
and  unpleasant  place,  to  make  us  trou- 
ble; for  their  absence  did  not  remove 
the  impression  that  they  had  come 
among  us  to  gauge  our  desirability  as 
prey  and  the  feasibility  of  overpow- 
ering our  entire  train. 


[132; 


CHAPTER  X. 

CHALLENGE    TO   BATTLE, 

We  divided  our  long  train  into  two 
parts,  leaving  a  short  space  between 
the  sections.  Mr.  Wood's  two  wagons 
headed  the  forward  part.  Toward  the 
close  of  the  day  on  which  this  change 
of  arrangement  was  made,  the  forward 
section  turned  off  the  road  a  short 
distance  before  stopping  to  make  camp, 
and  the  rear  section  passed  slightly 
beyond  the  first,  left  the  road  and 
halted,  so  that  a  double  camp  was 
formed,  with  the  two  sections  thus 
placed  for  the  night  in  relative  posi- 
tions the  reverse  of  the  order  they  had 
maintained  during  the  day. 

At  night-fall,  when  supper  was  over 
and  everything  at  rest,  we  saw  three 
horsemen  going  westward  on  the  emi- 
grant road.  When  they  were  opposite 
the  Maxwell,  or  forward,  camp,  as  the 

[133] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

train  sections  had  been  placed,  these 
men  turned  from  the  road  and  came 
toward  us.  We  soon  recognized  them 
as  our  late  guests  on  the  way:  he  of 
the  big  hat  and  his  two  companions. 

Riding  into  our  camp,  one  of  them 
remarked  that  they  now  observed  the 
change  made  in  arrangement  of  our 
train,  explaining  that  they  had  in- 
tended to  call  on  the  Englishman,  whose 
place  had  been  in  the  lead.  They  apol- 
ogized for  their  mistake.  The  first 
speaker  added  that  they  had  heard  it 
stated  that  this  English  gentleman  had 
charged  one  of  their  number  with  being 
in  company  with  the  Indians  who  killed 
his  wife,  at  the  time  of  the  tragedy,  a 
few  days  before. 

He  of  the  big,  brown  hat  then  as- 
sumed the  role  of  spokesman,  and  said : 

"I  understand  that  he  indicated  me, 
by  description ;  and  if  that  man  says  I 
was  with  the  Indians  who  killed  his 
wife,  I  will  kill  him.  Let  him  say  it, 
and  I  will  shoot  him  down  like  a  dog, 

[134] 


Tooly's  Threat 

that  he  is.  I  am  here  to  demand  of 
him  if  he  said  it." 

Another  of  the  three  said,  in  a  tone 
of  conciliation : 

"We  are  honest  men.  We  came  out 
here  from  Stockton,  California,  where 
we  live,  to  meet  the  emigrants  as  they 
come  over  from  the  States.  We  buy 
their  weak  and  disabled  stock,  such  as 
cannot  finish  the  trip  to  the  Coast; 
take  the  animals  onto  range  that  we 
know  of,  and  in  the  fall,  when  they  are 
recuperated,  we  drive  them  in  for  the 
California  market." 

The  man  under  the  large  hat  re- 
sumed : 

"My  name  is  James  Tooly.  My  part- 
ners here,  are  two  brothers,  named 
Hawes.  And  now,  if  that  Englishman, 
or  any  one  among  you,  says  I  was  with 
the  Indians  who  killed  his  wife,  I  will 
shoot  him  who  says  it,  right  here 
before  you  all." 

This  was  said  with  much  vehemence, 
and  punctuated  with  many  oaths. 

[135] 


Crossing  the  Plains 


Van  Diveer's  advantage  was  slight,  but  sufficient 


Mr.  Drennan,  of  our  combined  com- 
pany, replied: 

"If  you  want  to  talk  like  that,  go 
where  the  man  is.    We  don't  want  that 

[136] 


The  Challenge  Met 

kind  of  language  used  here,  in  the 
presence  of  our  women  and  children." 

Tooly,  standing  erect,  high  in  his 
stirrups,  drew  a  large  pistol  from  its 
holster  and  swung  it  above  his  head. 

"I  will  say  what  I  please,  where  I 
please;  and  I  don't  care  who  likes  it," 
roared  Tooly,  waving  his  pistol  in  air. 

W.  J.  Van  Diveer,  a  young  man  of 
the  Drennan  company,  who  had  been 
sitting  on  a  wagon-tongue  near  the 
speaker,  leaped  to  his  feet,  with  a 
pistol  leveled  at  the  big  horseman's 
head,  and  with  a  manner  that  left  no 
doubt  that  he  meant  what  he  said, 
shouted : 

'Til  be  damned  if  you  can  do  that 
here.  Now,  you  put  down  your  gun, 
and  go." 

The  muzzle  of  Van  Diveer's  pistol 
was  within  an  arm's-length  of  Tooly, 
aiming  steadily  at  his  head.  Tooly  was 
yet  with  pistol  in  hand  but  not  quite  in 
position  for  use  of  it  on  his  adversary. 
Van  Diveer's  advantage  was  slight,  but 

[137] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

sufficient  for  the  occasion.  Tooly's 
companions  did  not  act,  appearing  to 
await  his  orders,  and,  in  the  sudden- 
ness of  this  phase  of  the  scene,  Tooly 
found  no  voice  for  commands.  Others 
of  our  men  made  ready  on  the  instant, 
believing  that  a  battle  was  on. 

It  was  averted,  however.  Tooly 
replaced  his  pistol  in  the  holster, 
saying : 

"Well,  of  course — as  you  say,  my 
pie  is  over  yonder.  I  don't  want  to 
kill  you  fellows." 

And  he  didn't.  The  three  rode  over 
to  the  other  group  of  our  men,  among 
whom  was  Mr.  Wood.  All  of  these 
had  overheard  what  had  just  been  said, 
and  felt  sure  they  knew  what  was 
coming. 

Mr.  Wood,  grief-stricken,  disabled, 
stood,  pale  and  fearful,  amongst  the 
party  of  timid  emigrants,  all  strangers 
to  him;  he  the  only  man  probably  in 
the  camp   without  a   weapon   on   his 

[138] 


The  Enemy  Retreats 

person,  his  torn  arm  in  a  sling  across 
his  chest. 

The  big  fellow  made  his  statement 
again,  as  he  had  made  it  to  us;  with 
the  same  emphatic  threat  to  kill,  if  he 
could  induce  Wood  or  any  one  to  speak 
out  and  affirm  the  charge  of  Tooly' s 
complicity  with  the  Indians. 

Tooly  got  off  his  horse  and,  pistol  in 
hand,  walked  among  the  party;  many 
of  whom  surely  did  tremble  in  their 
boots.  He  declared  again,  as  he 
stalked  about,  that  he  would  shoot  the 
hapless  Wood,  "like  a  dog",  or  any 
one  who  would  repeat  the  charge. 

There  were  but  a  few  men  in  that 
part  of  the  camp  when  Tooly  com- 
menced this  second  tirade,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Wood;  but  soon  more  came 
from  the  other  part  of  the  train. 

Mr.  Wood,  in  a  condition  as  helpless 
as  if  with  hands  and  feet  bound,  real- 
izing his  situation,  and  his  responsi- 
bility,   maintained   silence:    a    silence 

[139] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

more  eloquent  than  speech,  since  a 
single  word  from  him  in  confirmation 
of  the  charge  he  had  made  would  have 
precipitated  a  battle,  in  which  he,  most 
certainly,  and  probably  others,  includ- 
ing some  of  his  benefactors,  would 
have  been  killed. 

Then  Tooly  saw  that  a  goodly  num- 
ber of  men  had  arrived  from  the  other 
section  of  the  camp,  and  were  watch- 
ing to  see  what  would  happen ;  some  of 
these  viewing  the  scene  with  attitude 
and  looks  that  boded  no  good  for  the 
man  who  held  the  center  of  the  arena. 

Tooly's  threatening  talk  ceased. 
Still  Wood  said  nothing.  In  silence, 
Tooly  mounted  his  horse,  and  with  his 
fellows  rode  away,  leaving  the  party 
of  emigrants — most  of  them  terror- 
stricken,  some  angry — standing  dumb, 
looking  at  one  another,  and  at  the 
retreating  three  until  they  went  out  of 
sight,  in  the  dusk  of  the  desert  night- 
fall: stood  there  on  the  sage-brush 
sward,  a  tableau  of  silent  dumbfound- 

[140] 


Intrigue  Suspicioned 

edness;  for  how  long  none  knew;  each 
waiting  for  something  to  break  the 
spell. 

"I  feel  like  a  fool,"  exclaimed  Van 
Diveer. 

"But,"  spoke  Drennan,  the  older  and 
more  conservative  leader  of  their  party, 
"we  couldn't  start  an  open  battle  with 
those  fellows  without  some  of  us  being 
killed.  They  are  gone;  we  should  be 
glad  that  they  are.  It  is  better  to  bear 
the  insult  than  have  even  one  of  our 
people  shot." 

"I'm  glad  they  left  no  bullets 

in  me — 
Ulee,  ilee,  aloo,  ee; 
Courting,  down  in  Tennessee." 

This  paraphrasing  of  his  favorite 
ditty  was,  of  course,  perpetrated  by 
"Jack." 

But  we  all  wished  we  knew.  Was  it 
true  that  these  men  were  conspirators 
with  the  Indians  who  had  been  rav- 
aging the  emigrant  trains?  If  so, 
doubtless  they  would  be  concerned  in 

[141] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

other  and  possibly  much  more  disas- 
trous assaults,  and  perhaps  soon.  If 
so,  who  would  be  the  next  victims? 

But  Mr.  Wood  was  still  too  indefinite 
in  his  identification  of  the  man  Tooly — 
at  least  in  his  statement  of  it — to  clear 
away  all  doubt,  or  even,  as  yet,  to 
induce  the  majority  of  our  men  to  act 
on  the  judgment  of  some:  that  we 
should  follow  these  plainsmen,  learn 
more,  and  have  it  out  with  them. 

There  were  many  circumstances 
pointing  not  only  to  the  connection  of 
these  men  with  the  assault  on  Mr. 
Wood's  family,  but  to  the  probability  of 
their  having  been  responsible  for  the 
slaughter  of  the  Holloway  party.  It 
seemed  improbable  that  there  were  two 
bands  of  Indians  operating  along  that 
part  of  the  Humboldt  River  in  the 
looting  of  emigrant  trains.  If  it  could 
be  proved  that  white  men  co-operated 
with  the  savages  in  the  Wood  case, 
the  inference  would  be  strong  that  the 
same  white  men  had  been  accessories 

[142] 


Accusing  Circumstances 

in  the  Holloway  massacre.  The  use  of 
guns  in  those  attacks,  and  the  evident 
abundance  of  ammunition  in  the  hands 
of  the  Indians,  went  far  toward  prov- 
ing the  connection  of  white  men  with 
both  these  cases. 


[143] 


CHAPTER  XL 

SAGEBRUSH  JUSTICE. 

The  Sink  of  the  Humboldt  is  a  lake 
of  strong,  brackish  water,  where  the 
river  empties  into  the  natural  basin, 
formed  by  the  slant  of  the  surrounding 
district  of  mountains,  plain  and  desert, 
and  where  some  of  the  water  sinks  into 
the  ground  and  much  of  it  evaporates, 
there  being  no  surface  outlet.  In  the 
latter  part  of  the  summer  the  water  is 
at  a  very  low  stage,  and  stronger  in 
mineral  constituents.  There  we  found 
the  daytime  heat  most  intense. 

The  land  that  is  exposed  by  the  re- 
ceding water  during  the  hottest  period 
of  the  fall  season  becomes  a  dry,  crack- 
ling waste  of  incrusted  slime,  curling 
up  in  the  fierce  sunshine,  and  readily 
crushed  under  foot,  like  frozen  snow. 
The  yellowish-white  scales  reflect  the 

[144] 


The  Trading  Post 

sunlight,  producing  a  painful  effect  on 
the  eyes.  Not  many  feet  wander  to 
this  forbidding  sea  of  desolation. 

At  the  border  of  this  desert  lake,  a 
few  feet  higher  than  the  water,  is  a 
plateau  of  sand,  covered  with  sage- 
brush and  stones.  We  were  there  in 
the  last  week  of  August.  Fresh  water 
was  not  to  be  had  except  at  a  place  a 
half-mile  from  our  camp,  where  there 
was  a  seepage  spring.  There  we  filled 
our  canteens  and  buckets  with  enough 
for  supper  and  breakfast.  The  animals 
had  to  endure  the  night  without  water. 

Not  far  from  the  spring  was  situated 
a  rude  shack,  known  as  "Black's  Trad- 
ing Post."  This  establishment  was 
constructed  of  scraps  of  rough  lumber, 
sticks,  stones  and  cow-hides.  With 
Mr.  Black  were  two  men,  said  to  be  his 
helpers — helpers  in  what,  did  not  ap- 
pear. The  principal  stock  in  trade  was 
a  barrel  of  whisky — reported  to  be  of 
very  bad  quality — some  plug  tobacco, 
and — not   much   else.      Black's  prices 

[145] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

were  high.  A  sip  from  the  barrel  cost 
fifty  cents.  It  was  said  to  be  an 
antidote  for  alkali  poisoning. 

Some  of  our  men  visited  this  empo- 
rium  of  the   desert,   and  there  they 


"A  sip  from  the  barrel  cost  fifty  cents" 

found  "Jim"  Tooly.  The  barrel  had 
been  tapped  in  his  behalf,  and  he  was 
loquacious;  appearing  also  to  be  quite 
"at  home"  about  the  Post.  His  two 
companions  of  our  recent  acquaintance 
were  not  there.  The  "antidote"  was 
working;  Tooly  was  in  good  spirits, 
and  eloquent.     He  did  not  appear  to 

[146] 


An  Improvised  Court 

recognize  those  of  our  people  who  were 
visiting  the  place;  but  they  knew  him. 
There  were  other  persons  present  from 
the  camps  of  two  or  three  companies  of 
emigrants,  but  strangers  to  us,  who 
were  also  stopping  for  the  night  at 
the  margin  of  the  Sink. 

Tooly  assumed  an  air  of  comrade- 
ship toward  all,  addressing  various  in- 
dividuals as  "Partner"  and  "Neigh- 
bor"; but  his  obvious  willingness  to 
hold  the  center  of  the  stage  made  it 
clear  that  he  deemed  himself  the 
important  personage  of  the  community. 

Some  things  he  said  were  self-in- 
criminating. He  boasted  of  having 
"done  up  a  lot  of  Pikers,  up  the  creek," 
declaring  his  intention  to  "look  up 
another  lot  of  suckers"  the  following 
day. 

When  our  men  thought  that  they  had 
heard  enough  they  returned  to  camp 
and  reported. 

Recollections  of  the  last  time  we 
had  seen  Mr.  Tooly  made  the  present 

[147] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

occasion  seem  opportune.  An  im- 
promptu "court"  was  organized :  judge, 
sheriff  and  deputies;  and  these,  with  a 
few  chosen  men  of  the  company,  went 
to  the  trading  post  to  convene  an  after- 
noon session.  The  members  of  this 
"court"  dropped  in  quietly,  one  or  two 
at  a  time,  looked  over  the  place,  asked 
questions — about  the  country;  the 
prices  of  Mr.  Black's  "goods" ;  how  far 
it  might  be  to  Sacramento ;  anything  to 
be  sociable :  but  none  offered  to  tap  the 
barrel. 

The  stranger  emigrants  had  heard  of 
the  Indian  raids  up  the  river.  Seem- 
ing to  have  inferred  something  of 
pending  events,  they  had  gone  to  the 
trading  post  in  considerable  numbers. 
Tooly  was  still  there.  Black  and  his 
two  men  seemed  to  be  persons  who 
ordinarily  would  be  classed  as  honest. 
Still,  they  appeared  to  listen  to  Tooly's 
tales  of  prowess  in  the  looting  of  emi- 
grant trains  as  if  they  regarded  such 
proceedings    as    acts    of    exceptional 

[148] 


Without  Technicalities 

valor;  exhibiting  as  much  interest  in 
the  recital  as  did  the  "tenderfoot'  emi- 
grants— who  held  a  different  opinion 
regarding  those  adventures. 

When  enough  had  been  heard  to 
warrant  the  finding  of  an  indictment, 
the  newly-appointed  judge  issued  a 
verbal  order  of  arrest,  and  the  sheriff 
and  his  deputies  quickly  surrounded 
the  accused,  before  he  suspected  any- 
thing inimical  to  his  personal  welfare. 
With  revolver  in  hand,  the  sheriff  com- 
manded, "Hands  up,  'Jim'  Tooly!"  To 
the  astonishment  of  all,  the  big  man 
raised  both  hands,  without  protest; 
this,  however,  in  mock  obedience,  as 
was  evident  by  his  laughing  at  the 
supposed  fun. 

"This  is  not  a  joke,  sir,"  came  in 
harsh  tones  from  the  judge.  "When 
we  saw  you  last,  about  sixteen  days 
ago,  you  came  to  our  camp  to  deny  a 
charge  made  against  you  by  a  man  of 
our  company.  You  overawed,  brow- 
beat and  insulted  the  man  and  those 

[149] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

who  were  assisting  and  protecting  him 
in  his  distress.  You  denied  the  accusa- 
tion made  against  you,  with  vehemence 
and  much  profanity.  Giving  you  the 
benefit  of  a  doubt,  we  permitted  you 
to  go.  Now  we  are  here  to  take  the 
full  statement  of  the  prosecuting  wit- 
ness, and  examine  such  other  evidence 
as  there  may  be.  We  will  clear  you 
if  we  can,  or  find  you  guilty  if  we 
must." 

In  whatever  direction  the  culprit 
looked  he  gazed  into  the  open  end  of 
a  gun  or  pistol.    The  sheriff  said: 

"Now,  Tooly,  any  motion  of  resist- 
ance will  cost  you  your  life." 

A  disinterested  onlooker  at  the  mo- 
ment would  have  cringed,  lest  the  un- 
accustomed duty  of  some  deputy  should 
so  unnerve  his  hand  that  he  would 
inadvertently  and  prematurely  pull  the 
trigger  of  his  weapon.  But  all  held 
sufficiently  steady,  as  they  looked 
through  the  sights. 

The  prisoner  slowly  grasped  the  sit- 

[150] 


Search  Warrant 

uation,  and  knew  that  temporary 
safety  lay  in  obedience.  The  sheriff's 
demand  for  Tooly's  weapons  created 
more  surprise,  when  it  was  revealed 
that,  in  his  feeling  of  security  while 
at  the  Post,  he  had  relieved  himself  of 
those  encumbering  articles  and  depos- 
ited them  with  the  landlord,  that  he 
might  have  freedom  from  their  weight 
while  enjoying  the  hospitality  of  the 
place. 

Thus  his  captors  had  him  as  a  tiger 
with  teeth  and  claws  drawn.  His 
weapons,  when  brought  out  from  the 
hut  for  examination,  were  found  to  be 
two  pistols,  of  the  largest  size  and  most 
dangerous  appearance,  in  a  leathern 
holster,  the  latter  made  to  carry  on  the 
pommel  of  a  saddle,  in  front  of  the 
rider.  These,  also  his  saddle  and  other 
trappings,  were  searched  for  evidence; 
but,  except  the  pistols,  nothing  was 
found  that  tended  to  throw  any  further 
light  on  the  question  of  his  guilt  or 
innocence. 

[151] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

Tooly  was  then  taken,  under  a  heavy 
guard,  to  a  spot  some  distance  from 
the  Post,  where  the  court  reconvened, 
for  the  purpose  of  completing  the  trial. 

His  captors  had,  with  good  reason, 
reckoned  Tooly  as  like  a  beast  of  the 
jungle,  who,  when  put  at  bay,  would 
resort  to  desperate  fighting;  but,  hav- 
ing been  caught  thus  unawares  and 
unarmed,  violence  on  his  part  or  re- 
sistance of  any  kind,  was  useless.  He 
was  doubtless  feigning  meekness,  hop- 
ing for  an  opportunity  to  escape. 

A  jury  was  selected,  mostly  from  the 
stranger  emigrants. 

The  improvised  court  sat  on  an 
alkali  flat  near  the  margin  of  the  lake, 
where  there  were  some  large  stones 
and  clumps  of  sage-brush.  There 
Tooly  was  confronted  by  Mr.  Wood, 
still  with  bandaged  arm.  Tooly  de- 
clared he  had  never  before  seen  the 
Englishman,  but  Wood  said  he  had 
seen  Tooly,  and  now  reaffirmed  his 
belief  that  the  prisoner  was  one  of  the 

[152] 


Final  Evidence 

persons  who,  some  weeks  previously, 
had  ridden  with  the  Indians  who  killed 
Mrs.  Wood  and  the  child,  also  wounded 
and  robbed  the  witness. 

Still  the  evidence  was  not  deemed 
sufficiently  positive  or  complete,  the 
identity  being  in  some  doubt.  The  jury 
wrould  not  convict  without  conclusive 
proof.  With  the  view  of  procuring  fur- 
ther evidence,  the  judge  ordered  that 
the  person  of  the  prisoner  be  searched. 

Hearing  this  mandate,  Tooly  first 
made  some  sign  of  an  intention  to  re- 
sist— only  a  slight  start,  as  if  possibly 
contemplating  an  effort  to  break 
through  the  cordon  of  untrained 
guards. 

"Gentlemen,"  ordered  the  sheriff, 
"keep,  every  man,  his  eye  on  this  fel- 
low, and  his  finger  on  the  trigger." 
Then  to  the  prisoner, 

"Stand,  sir,  or  you  will  be  reduced 
to  the  condition  of  a  "good  Indian'!" 

Escape  as  yet  appeared  impossible, 
and  Tooly  must  have  finally  come  to  a 

[153] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

definite  realization  that  he  was  in  the 
hands  of  men  who  meant  business, 
most  earnestly.  Bravado  had  ceased 
to  figure  in  his  conduct.  It  was  ap- 
parent that  the  search  for  evidence 
was  narrowing  its  field;  the  erstwhile 
minions  of  frontier  justice  were  on  the 
right  scent.  Tooly  grew  pallid  of  fea- 
ture and  his  cheeks  hollowed  percept- 
ibly, in  a  moment.  There  was  a  wild 
glare  in  his  eyes,  as  they  turned  from 
side  to  side;  fear,  hatred,  viciousness, 
mingled  in  every  glance.  He  crouched, 
not  designedly,  but  as  if  an  involuntary 
action  of  the  muscles  drew  him  to- 
gether. His  fists  were  clenched;  his 
mouth  partly  opened,  as  if  he  would 
speak,  but  could  not. 

Thus  he  stood,  half  erect,  while  the 
officer  searched  his  clothing.  The  ex- 
amination disclosed  that,  secured  in  a 
buckskin  belt,  worn  under  his  outer 
garments,  there  was  English  gold  coin, 
to  the  value  of  five  hundred  dollars; 
just  one-third  of  the  amount  that  Mr. 

[1541 


"GmUy9' 

Wood  declared  he  had  lost  at  the  time 
of  the  robbery.  What  became  of  the 
other  two-thirds  of  Mr.  Wood's  money 
was  readily  inferred,  but  full  proof  of 
it  was  not  necessary  to  this  case. 

Tooly's  trial  was  closed.  The  only 
instruction  the  court  gave  the  jury 
was,  "Gentlemen,  you  have  heard  the 
testimony  and  seen  the  evidence;  what 
is  your  verdict ?" 

The  answer  came,  as  the  voice  of 
one  man,  "Guilty." 

During  the  entire  proceeding,  at  the 
post  and  down  by  the  lake,  the  judge 
sat  astride  his  mule.  Addressing  the 
prisoner  once  more  from  his  elevated 
"bench,"  he  said : 

"Mr.  Tooly,  you  are  found  guilty  of 
the  murder  of  Mrs.  Wood  and  her 
child,  the  wounding  of  Mr.  Wood,  and 
robbery  of  his  wagon.  Mr.  Wood  has 
from  the  first  stated  his  belief  that 
you  were  with,  and  the  leader  of,  the 
band  of  Indians  which  attacked  his 
party.    You  afterwards  denied  it;  but 

[155] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

now,  in  addition  to  his  almost  positive 
identification,  and  many  circumstances 
pointing  to  your  guilt,  you  are  found 
with  the  fruits  of  that  robbery  on  your 
person.    Have  you  anything  to  say?" 


'Stop,'  shouted  the  Judge" 


Tooly  was  ashy  pale,  and  speechless. 
Absolute  silence  reigned  for  a  time,  as 
the  court  awaited  the  prisoner's  reply, 
if  by  any  means  he  could  offer  some 
explanation,  some  possible  extenuating 
circumstance,  that  might  affect  the 
judgment  to  be  pronounced.  None 
came,  and  the  judge  continued : 

[156] 


Exit  Tooly 

"You  can  have  your  choice,  to  be 
shot,  or  hanged  to  the  uplifted  tongue 
of  a  wagon.    Which  do  you  choose?" 

Tooly  took  the  risk  of  immediate 
death,  in  seeking  one  last,  desperate 
chance  for  life.  Instantly  he  turned 
half  around,  crouched  for  a  spring, 
and,  seemingly  by  one  single  leap,  went 
nearly  past  the  rock-pile,  so  that  it 
partly  covered  his  retreat.  Quick  as 
his  movements  were,  they  were  not 
swifter  than  those  of  the  men  whose 
duty  was  to  prevent  his  escape. 

"Stop,  Tooly,"  shouted  the  judge, 
sitting  astride  his  mule,  as  his  long 
right  arm  went  out  to  a  level,  aiming 
his  big  Colt's  revolver  at  the  fleeing 
man. 

"Shoot,  boys,"  commanded  the  sheriff 
at  the  same  instant;  a  chorus  of  shots 
sounded,  and  the  court's  sentence  was 
executed. 

Complying  with  the  request  of  the 
judge,  the  sheriff  had  a  hole  dug  near 

[157] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

where  the  body  lay,  and  the  dead  man 
was  buried,  sans  ceremonie. 

The  court  returned  to  the  trading 
post  and  requested  the  proprietor  to 
state  what  he  knew  of  Tooly.  Mr. 
Black  declared  he  only  knew  that  the 
accused  plainsman  came  to  the  post 
that  day;  that  he  bought  and  drank  a 
considerable  quantity  of  whisky,  and 
offered  to  treat  several  passing  emi- 
grants, all  of  whom  declined. 

The  English  gold  found  upon  the 
prisoner  was  returned  to  Mr.  Wood, 
and  the  incident  was  closed. 

The  trial  had  been  as  orderly  and 
impartial  as  the  proceedings  in  any 
court  established  by  constitutional 
authority.  All  those  concerned  in  it 
realized  that  they  were  performing  a 
duty  of  grave  importance.  There  was 
nothing  of  vindictiveness,  nothing  of 
rashness.  It  was  without  "due  pro- 
cess," and  it  was  swift;  a  proceeding 
without  the  delays  commonly  due  to 
technicalities  observed  in  a  legal  tri- 

[158] 


Deplorable  Necessity 

bunal ;  but  it  was  justice  conscientiously 
administered,  without  law — an  action 
necessary  under  the  circumstances. 
Its  justification  was  fully  equal  to  that 
of  similar  services  performed  by  the 
Vigilance  Committee,  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, within  a  year  preceding.  It  was 
a  matter  the  necessity  of  which  was 
deplorable,  but  the  execution  of  which 
was  imposed  upon  those  who  were  on 
the  spot  and  uncovered  the  convincing 
facts. 


[159] 


CHAPTER  XII. 

NIGHT   TRAVEL,   FROM  ARID  WASTES  TO 
LIMPID  WATERS. 

From  the  Sink  of  the  Humboldt  the 
little  Darby  party  wished  to  complete 
the  trip  by  the  Carson  Route,  thus  sep- 
arating from  the  majority,  but  their 
supplies  were  exhausted  and  they  had 
now  but  one  ox  and  one  cow  to  draw 
their  wagon.  A  suggestion,  that  those 
who  could  spare  articles  of  food  should 
divide  with  the  needy,  was  no  sooner 
made  than  acted  upon.  Sides  of  bacon, 
sacks  of  flour  and  other  substantials 
were  piled  into  their  little  vehicle,  and 
the  owners  of  the  two  oxen  which  had 
been  loaned  Darby  simply  said,  "Take 
them  along;  you  need  them  more  than 
we  do."  Danny,  alias  "Gravy"  Wor- 
ley,  being  of  that  party,  showed  his 
delight,  by  sparkling  eyes  and  beaming 

[160] 


Helping  the  Needy 

fat  face,  when  he  saw  the  abundance 
of  edibles  turned  over  to  his  people. 
Mr.  Darby  shed  genuine  tears  of  grati- 
tude, as  we  bade  them  good-bye  and 
drove  away  by  another  route. 

The  combination  train  was  further 
divided,  each  party  shaping  its  farther 
course  according  to  the  location  of  its 
final  stop.  The  Drennans  took  the 
Carson  Route,  the  Maxwell  train  pro- 
ceeding by  the  more  northerly,  Truckee, 
trail.  The  associations  of  the  plains, 
closer  cemented  by  the  sharing  of  many 
hardships  and  some  pleasures,  had 
created  feelings  almost  equal  to  kin- 
ship, more  binding  than  those  of  many 
a  life-long  neighborhood  relation.  So 
there  were  deep  regrets  at  parting. 

On  leaving  the  Sink  of  the  Humboldt 
there  was  before  us  a  wholly  desert 
section,  forty  miles  wide.  The  course 
led  southwesterly,  over  flat,  barren 
lands,  with  a  line  of  low  hills,  abso- 
lutely devoid  of  vegetation,  on  our 
right.     This  was  known  to  be  one  of 

[161] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

the  hard  drives  of  our  long  journey; 
but  hearsay  knowledge  was  also  to  the 
effect  that,  at  its  farther  border,  we 
would  reach  the  Truckee  River,  and 
soon  thereafter  ascend  the  Sierra 
Nevada  Mountains.  The  prospect  of 
seeing  again  a  river  of  pure  water,  and 
fresh,  green  trees,  had  a  buoyant  effect 
on  our  lagging  hopes;  and  these  were 
further  stimulated  by  the  information 
that  not  long  after  entering  these  forest 
shades  we  would  cross  the  State  line 
into  California. 

While  crossing  the  forty  miles  of 
desert,  the  sun-baked  silt,  at  the  be- 
ginning, and  later  the  deep,  dry  sand, 
made  heavy  going.  To  avoid  the  al- 
most intolerable  heat  of  day  as  much 
as  possible,  and  it  being  known  that 
water  was  not  obtainable,  during  this 
much-dreaded  bit  of  travel,  we  deferred 
the  start  until  mid-afternoon,  and 
traveled  all  night. 

The  impressions  of  that  night  ride 
were  most  extraordinary.    As  the  sun 

[162] 


Weird  Impressions 

sank,  and  twilight  shaded  into  night, 
the  atmosphere  was  filled  with  a  hazy 
dimness;  not  merely  fog,  nor  smoke, 
nor  yet  a  pall  of  suspended  dust,  but 
rather  what  one  might  expect  in  a 
blending  of  those  three.  Only  a  tinge 
of  moonlight  from  above  softened  the 
dull  hue.  It  was  not  darkness  as  night 
usually  is  dark.  It  was  an  impene- 
trable, opaque  narrowing  of  the  hori- 
zon, and  closing  in  of  the  heavens 
above  us;  which,  as  we  advanced,  con- 
stantly shifted  its  boundary,  retaining 
us  still  in  the  center  of  the  great 
amphitheater  of  half-night.  We  could 
see  one  another,  but  beyond  or  above 
the  encompassing  veil  all  was  mystery, 
even  greater  mystery  than  mere  dark- 
ness. No  moon  nor  stars  visible; 
nothing  visible  but  just  part  of  our- 
selves, and  ours. 

As  the  night  merged  into  morning, 
the  sunlight  gradually  dispelled  the 
mantle  of  gloom  from  our  immediate 
presence ;  but  still  we  could  not  see  out. 

[163] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

As  if  inclosed  in  a  great  moving  pavil- 
ion, on  we  went,  guided  only  by  the 
tracks  of  those  who  had  gone  before. 

In  the  after  part  of  the  night  the 
loose  cattle,  having  been  for  two  nights 
and  a  day  without  water,  and  instinc- 
tively expecting  an  opportunity  to 
drink,  quickened  their  pace,  passing  the 
wagons;  the  stronger  ones  outgoing 
the  weaker,  till- the  drove  was  strung 
out  two  or  three  miles  in  length  along 
the  sandy  trail. 

Some  of  the  wise-heads  in  the  com- 
pany were  fearful  that  the  cattle,  on 
reaching  the  Truckee  River,  would 
drink  too  much.  They  detailed  Luke 
Kidd  and  me  to  ride  on  our  mules 
ahead  of  the  foremost  of  the  stock,  and 
on  reaching  the  river,  permit  none  of 
the  animals  to  drink  more  than  a  little 
water  at  a  time. 

We  went  ahead  during  all  that  long 
morning,  following  what  was  surely,  to 
us,  the  longest  night  that  ever  hap- 
pened, before  or  since.     Most  of  the 

[164] 


Sighting  the  Sierras 

other  members  of  our  party  were  in 
the  wagons,  and  they,  except  the 
drivers,  slept  soundly;  rocked  gently, 
very  gently,  by  the  slow  grinding  of 
the  wheels  in  the  soft,  deep  sand.  But 
Luke  and  I,  on  our  little  mules,  must 
keep  awake,  and  alert  as  possible,  in 
readiness  to  hold  back  the  cattle  from 
taking  too  much  water. 

From  midnight  to  daybreak  seemed 
a  period  amounting  to  entire  days  and 
nights;  from  dawn  till  sunrise,  an 
epoch;  and  from  sunrise  to  the  time 
of  reaching  the  river,  as  a  period  that 
would  have  no  end. 

As  the  sun  finally  rose  behind  us,  the 
faintest  adumbration  of  the  nearest 
ridges  of  the  Sierras  was  discerned,  in 
a  dim,  blue  scroll  across  the  western 
horizon,  far  ahead — how  far  it  was 
useless  to  guess;  and  later,  patches  of 
snow  about  the  peaks. 

The  minutes  were  as  hours ;  and  their 
passing  tantalized  us:  noting  how  the 
dim   view  grew   so   very  slowly   into 

I  165  ] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

hazy  outlines  of  mountains,  and  finally 
of  tree-tops. 

On  we  labored,  overcoming  distance 
inch  by  inch;  nodding  in  our  saddles; 
occasionally  dismounting,  to  shake  off 
the  almost  overpowering  grasp  of  sleep. 

Half  awake,  we  dreamed  of  water, 
green  trees,  and  fragrant  flowers.  Ris- 
ing hope,  anon,  took  the  place  of  long- 
deferred  fruition,  and  we  forgot  for  a 
moment  how  hard  the  pull  was;  till, 
with  returning  consciousness  of  thirst 
and  painful  drowsiness,  we  saw  the 
landscape  ahead  presented  still  another, 
and  another  line  of  sand-dunes  yet  to 
be  overcome. 

Luke  and  I  reached  the  Truckee  at 
nine  o'clock  in  the  forenoon,  just  ahead 
of  the  vanguard  of  cattle,  and  about 
three  miles  in  advance  of  the  foremost 
wagon. 

We  tried  to  regulate  the  cattle's  con- 
sumption of  water,  but  did  not  prevent 
their  drinking  all  they  could  hold.  Ten 
men,    on   ten   mules,    could   not   have 

[166] 


The  Truckee 

stopped  one  cow  from  plunging  into 
that  river,  once  she  got  sight  of  it,  and 
remaining  as  long  as  she  desired.  We 
could  not  even  prevent  the  mules  we 
rode  from  rushing  into  it — that  cold, 
rippling  Truckee.  Yet  our  elders  had 
sent  us  two  boys  to  hold  back  a  hundred 
cattle,  and  make  them  drink  in  install- 
ments— in  homeopathic  doses,  for  their 
stomachs'  sake. 

They  dashed  into  the  stream  en 
masse ;  and  seeing  the  futility  of  inter- 
fering, we  gladly  joined  the  cattle,  in 
the  first  good,  long,  cool  swallow  of 
clear,  clean  water,  within  a  period  of 
six  weeks. 

Our  little  mules  did  not  stop  till 
they  reached  the  middle  of  the  river, 
and  stuck  their  heads,  ears  and  all, 
under  the  water.  Luke's  diminutive, 
snuff -colored  beast  was  so  overcome  by 
the  sight  and  feel  of  water  that  she  lay 
down  in  it,  with  him  astride,  giving 
herself  and  her  master  the  first  real 
bath  since  the  time  that  she  did  the 

[167] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

same  thing,  in  the  Platte  River,  some 
three  months  previously. 

To  us,  the  long-time  sun-dried, 
thirsty  emigrants;  covered  from  head 
to  foot  with  dust  from  the  Black  Hills, 
overlaid  with  alkali  powder  from  the 
Humboldt,  veneered  with  ashes  of  the 
desert;  all  ingrained  by  weeks  of  der- 
matic absorption,  rubbed  in  by  the 
wear  of  travel,  polished  by  the  friction 
of  the  wind — to  us  said  the  Truckee, 
flowing  a  hundred  feet  wide,  trans- 
parent, deep,  cool ;  rattling  and  singing 
and  splashing  over  the  rocks;  and  the 
sparkle  of  its  crystal  purity,  the  music 
of  its  flow  and  the  joy  of  its  song,  re- 
peated, "Come  and  take  a  drink." 

We  filled  our  canteens  and  went  back 
to  meet  the  others.  We  found  them  in 
a  line  three  miles  long ;  and  it  was  well 
into  the  afternoon  when  the  last  wagon 
reached  the  river. 

The  train  crossed  to  the  farther 
shore,  into  the  grateful  shade  of  the 
pine  forest  and  there  made  camp. 

[168] 


The  Happiest  Camp 

What  an  enchanting  spectacle  was 
that  scene  of  wooded  hills,  with  its 
varying  lights  and  shades,  all  about  us ! 
From  as  far  as  we  could  see,  up  the 
heights  and  down  to  the  river  bank, 
where  their  roots  were  washed  in  the 
cool  water,  the  great  trees  grew. 

We  were  still  within  the  confines  of 
Nevada,  but  two  men  were  there  with 
a  wagon-load  of  fresh  garden  stuff, 
brought  over  from  the  foothills  of  Cali- 
fornia to  sell  to  the  emigrants:  pota- 
toes, at  fifty  cents  a  pound,  pickles, 
eight  dollars  a  keg,  and  so  on.  We 
bought,  and  feasted. 

The  camp  that  night  by  the  Truckee 
River  was  the  happiest  of  all.  We 
had  reached  a  place  where  green  things 
grew  in  limitless  profusion,  where 
water  flowed  pure  and  free;  and  we 
were  out  of  the  desert  and  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  savage  Redman. 


[169] 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

INTO  THE  SETTLEMENTS. 
HALT. 

Having  begun  the  ascent  of  the  lofty 
and  precipitous  east  slope  of  the  Sierra 
Nevada  Mountains,  one  night  about 
the  first  of  September  the  camp-site 
selected  was  at  a  spot  said  to  be  directly 
on  the  boundary  line  between  Nevada 
and  California. 

Lounging  after  supper  about  a  huge 
bonfire  of  balsam  pine,  the  travelers 
debated  the  question  whether  we  were 
really  at  last  within  the  limits  of  the 
Mecca  toward  which  we  had  journeyed 
so  patiently  throughout  the  summer. 
While  so  engaged,  the  stillness,  thereto- 
fore disturbed  only  by  the  murmur  of 
our  voices  and  occasional  popping  of 
the  burning  logs,  was  further  dispelled 

[170] 


Yuba  Dam 

for  a  few  seconds  by  sounds  as  of 
shifting  pebbles  on  the  adjacent  banks, 
accompanied  by  rustling  of  the  foliage, 
waving  of  tall  branches  and  tree-tops, 
and  a  gentle  oscillation  of  the  ground 
on  which  we  rested.  These  manifesta- 
tions were  new  to  our  experience;  but 
we  had  heard  and  read  enough  about 
the  western  country  to  hazard  a 
guess  as  to  the  significance  of  the 
disturbance. 

"Jack/'  aroused  from  his  first  early 
slumber  of  that  particular  evening, 
raised  himself  on  an  elbow,  and  as- 
serted, confidently: 

"That  settles  it;  we  are  in  Cali- 
fornia: that  was  an  earthquake." 

Appearing  already  to  have  caught 
the  universal  feeling  of  western  people 
regarding  the  matter  of  "quakes,"  he 
chuckled,  in  contemplation  of  his  own 
perspicacity,  and  calmly  resumed  his 
recumbent  attitude,  and  his  nap. 

The  summit  of  the  Sierras  was 
reached  within  about  two  days  from 

[171] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

the  commencement  of  the  ascent.  We 
met  no  people  in  these  mountains  until 
we  had  proceeded  some  distance  down 
the  westerly  slope,  and  reached  a  min- 
ing camp,  near  a  small,  gushing  stream, 
that  poured  itself  over  and  between 
rocks  in  a  tortuous  gorge. 

The  camp  was  a  small  cluster  of 
rough  shacks,  built  of  logs,  split  boards 
and  shakes.  As  if  dropped  there  by 
accident,  they  were  located  without  re- 
gard for  any  sort  of  uniformity.  These 
were  the  bunk  cabins  of  the  miners; 
some  of  the  diminutive  structures  being 
only  of  size  sufficient  to  accommodate 
a  cot,  a  camp-stool  and  a  wash-basin. 
A  larger  cabin  stood  at  about  the  center 
of  the  group,  the  joint  kitchen  and 
dining-room. 

As  we  drove  into  the  "town,"  the 
only  person  within  view  was  a  China- 
man, standing  at  the  door.  For  most 
of  us  this  was  a  first  introduction  to 
one  of  the  yellow  race.  He  was  evi- 
dently the  camp  cook. 

[172] 


The  Celestial  Cook 

Major  Crewdson  approached  the 
Celestial  with  the  salutation:  "Hello, 
John." 

"Belly  good,"  was  the  reply. 


"  'Melican  man  dig  gold" 


Having  already  heard  it  said  that 
the  invariable  result  of  an  untutored 
Chinaman's  effort  to  pronounce  any 
word  containing  an  "r"  produced  the 
sound  of  "1"  instead,  we  thought  little 
of  that  error  in  the  attempt  of  this 
one  to  say  "Very,"  but  believed  that 

[173] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

his  substitution  for  the  initial  letter  of 
that  word  was  inexcusable. 

"What  is  the  name  of  this  place ?" 
continued  Crewdson. 

"  'Melican  man  dig  gold." 

"Yes,  I  know  that;  but,  this  town, 
what  do  you  call  it?" 

"Yu-ba  Dam,"  the  Chinaman 
answered. 

This  response  was  intended  to  be 
civil.  Near  by  the  Yuba  River  was 
spanned  by  a  dam,  for  mining  pur- 
poses, known  as  Yuba  Dam,  which  gave 
the  mining  camp  its  name. 

Further  on  we  came  to  the  first 
house  that  we  saw  in  California;  and 
it  was  the  first  real  house  within  our 
view  since  the  few  primitive  structures 
at  Nebraska  City,  on  the  west  shore  of 
the  Missouri  River,  faded  from  our 
sight,  the  preceding  spring.  During 
a  period  of  about  four  months  our  com- 
pany had  traveled  thousands  of  miles, 
through  varying  wilds,  in  all  of  which 
not  one  habitation,  in  form  common  to 

[174] 


The  First  House 

civilization,  had  been  encountered. 
Seldom  has  civilized  man  journeyed  a 
greater  distance  elsewhere,  even  in 
darkest  Africa,  without  passing  the 
conventional  domicile  of  some  member 


Pack-mule  route  to  placer  diggings 


of  his  own  race.  Long  ago  such  an  ex- 
perience became  impossible  in  the 
United  States. 

This  house  was  a  small  wayside  inn, 
situated  where  a  miners'  trail  crossed 
the  emigrant  route;  a  roughly-made, 
two-story,    frame    building,    with    a 

[175] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

corral  adjoining;  at  which  mule  pack- 
trains  stopped  overnight,  when  carry- 
ing supplies  from  Sacramento  and 
Marysville  for  miners  working  the  gold 
placer  diggings  along  the  American  and 
Yuba  rivers.  We  camped  beside  the 
little  hotel,  and  the  next  morning  were 
for  the  first  time  permitted  to  enjoy  a 
sample  of  the  proverbially  generous 
California  hospitality,  when  the  land- 
lord invited  our  entire  company  into 
his  hostelry  for  breakfast. 

Our  entrance  into  California  was  in 
Nevada  County,  thence  through  Placer, 
Sacramento,  Solano  and  Napa,  and 
into  Sonoma. 

Over  the  last  one  hundred  miles  we 
saw  evidences  that  the  valleys,  great 
and  small,  were  rapidly  filling  with 
settlers. 

The  last  stream  forded  was  the  Rus- 
sian River,  flowing  southwesterly 
through  Alexander  Valley,  to  the  sea. 
Having  crossed  to  the  western  shore, 
our  motley  throng  found  itself  in  the 

[176] 


Final  Unyoking 

settlement  embracing  the  village  of 
Healdsburg,  an  aggregation  of  perhaps 
a  dozen  or  twenty  houses.  There  our 
worn  and  weather-stained  troop  made 
its  final  halt;  and  the  jaded  oxen,  on 
whose  endurance  and  patient  service  so 
much — even  our  lives — had  depended, 
were  unyoked  the  last  time,  on  Septem- 
ber seventeenth,  just  four  months  after 
the  departure  from  the  Missouri  River. 
Considering  all  the  circumstances  of 
the  journey,  through  two  thousand 
miles  of  diversified  wilderness,  during 
which  we  rested  each  night  in  a  dif- 
ferent spot;  it  seems  providential  that, 
on  every  occasion  when  the  time  came 
for  making  camp,  a  supply  of  water 
and  fuel  was  obtainable.  Without 
these  essentials  there  would  have  been 
much  additional  suffering.  Sometimes 
the  supply  was  limited  or  inferior, 
sometimes  both;  especially  during 
those  trying  times  in  the  westerly  por- 
tion of  the  Humboldt  region;  but  we 
were  never  without  potable  water  nor 

[177] 


Crossing  the  Plains 

fire,  at  least  for  the  preparation  of  our 
evening  meal.  Nature  had  prepared 
the  country  for  this  great  overland 
exodus  from  the  populous  East ;  a  most 
important  factor  in  the  upbuilding  of 
the  rich  western  empire,  theretofore  so 
little  known,  but  whose  development  of 
resources  and  accession  of  inhabitants 
since  have  been  the  world's  greatest 
marvel  for  more  than  half  a  hundred 
years. 

As  I  look  back,  through  the  lapse  of 
nearly  sixty  years,  upon  that  toilsome 
and  perilous  journey,  notwithstanding 
its  numerous  harrowing  events, 
memory  presents  it  to  me  as  an  itiner- 
ary of  almost  continuous  excitement 
and  wholesome  enjoyment;  a  panorama 
that  never  grows  stale;  many  of  the 
incidents  standing  out  to  view  on  recol- 
lection's landscape  as  clear  and  sharp 
as  the  things  of  yesterday.  That  which 
was  worst  seems  to  have  softened  and 
lapsed  into  the  half-forgotten,  while 
the    good    and    happy    features   have 

[178] 


Retrospect 

grown   brighter  and  better   with   the 
passing  of  the  years. 

Whether  pioneers  in  the  most  techni- 
cal sense,  we  were  early  Calif ornians, 
who  learned  full  well  what  was  meant 
by  "Crossing  the  Plains." 

END. 


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